A Start in Life

Part One

I remember childhood as an intense and wonderful love-affair that was stamped out by the wilful circumstance of growing up. So you can be sure I won’t spend long on it.

It’s hard to take things very far back, except to say that I came into the world without a father. A man must have been somewhere involved in it, but I didn’t know who he was, and I felt for a long time that my mother hardly did, either. In this sense I married my mother at a very early age, so that until I grew conscious of the world, I lived the most perfect existence. But when I tried to stop rivals getting into bed with her, she slapped me, saying: ‘Get out of the way, you little bastard.’ If she hit me hard enough I did as she told me, otherwise I crawled under the bed and slept to the gentle rocking noise above.

She sometimes called me a foreign bastard, but there was no great insult to strangers in this, for it only meant I was foreign to her own body, which could not help but be, having come right out from it. As soon as she thought I had reached the age of reason she stopped calling me these names for fear I should understand their exact meaning, of ask her to explain them to me. In this way I remembered the appellation till I was able to look up its significance in a dictionary at school.

She knocked me around, but fed me well and put good clothes on my back, so in the world we lived in there was no reason to complain. The war was on (don’t ask which), and I took great interest in it from the wireless going continually. It seemed that every soldier in the world, on our side anyway, had to knock at the front door and, a few hours later, slip out of the back on his way up the line to death. They were stuffed with gin, and me with lollipops, while my mother seemed to thrive on fags and chewing-gum. As far as I was concerned that was how the war was won, and if children of mine ever think to ask: ‘Dad, what did you do in the war?’ I’ll say, ‘I kept my trap shut and loved every bit of it.’

Nothing lasts for ever, though you don’t think so at the time. If it’s bad you want it to go quickly, and if it’s good you like it so much your heart marks time to hold it close, though you soon get tired of its dotty rhythm. A neighbour looked after me while Mother went to work and I played in the soil wearing clouts and rompers (and in summer nothing at all) till Mother came down the yard in her democratic overalls, an egalitarian jaunty fag at her lips, when I’d run to take her hand and we’d go together to the back door, me holding a biscuit she’d saved from the canteen at dinner-time, but unwilling to eat it quickly since it seemed the only visible proof of her love.

My father’s side I didn’t know about, for my mother never spoke of him. But she had parents still, so I got enough talk from her family to last for both sides. They lived in a house at Beeston, and she’d take me there, out of the streets and along Faraday Road as far as the bridge, where she’d pull me up to the top deck of the bus because she wanted to smoke. Then I could look out through clouds of it at wide spaces spreading left and right at the university that I thought at first was a hospital. One summer’s day we went on foot, a short way along Cuthrough Lane which she always called Cut Throat Lane because as a girl she used to walk or cycle along its narrow and leafy path which was so secluded that it put her in that frame of mind.

Grandma was scrubbing the house and when she told me to sit down I did so where a chair was usually placed. But I fell in a bucket of muddy water laced with snakey and lukewarm floorcloths. I set up a scream — only drowned by my mother’s of rage when she pulled me out of it. The house was dark with the shutters shut. It was bigger than ours and stood on a side lane off the main road, and had a walled garden. The tree in the middle was stout, an ancient elm that was rotten inside, but Grandad was frightened to chop it down because he thought it might crush the kitchen jutting out from the house, or smash through the wall and block the road. I tried to climb it at an early age. For a long time it defeated me because I was so small, but there were always other troubles waiting. I got into scrapes so much, not because I was unhappy, as people often believe, but because I was confident and full of hope. Grandma used to say how cheerful I was, continually busy and knocking about, a handful of such brazen curiosity that I’d take some looking after, by God I would, which was the way of children who were born like that.

I ran out of her gate one day while they were drinking tea and eating cake. Across the road and by the kerb was a dark green motor van and I opened the door without thinking. Inside I found a new world of leather upholstery and dials, handles and knobs, as well as a monstrous wheel. Standing up I could look out of the wide front window and see down the sloping road. I was strong enough to pull the door shut after me, and then found force to grip another handle that suddenly fell forward with a clatter, causing the flesh of my palm to ring as it hit its limits somewhere forward. A rumble under the whole car told me all was not right with the world, and standing straight I saw my grandad’s brick wall sliding backwards along the car. Then another house was in view, and, full of terror, I dropped into a bundle on the floor and cried out for my mother.

The car made ominous bounces down the road, ran across a junction at the bottom, and buried itself in a tall privet hedge, grinding its side against a concrete gate-post. A man came running, and when the door opened I felt a solid hand thumping at my head, and heard a voice calling me all the bad names that came to it, one of which at least was true. I cried, and thought my more-or-less pleasant world was coming to an end. My mother must have been told what was happening, for I heard her curses as she began bashing the man at any part of his body she could reach. Grandma pulled me out and soothed me, praising God I hadn’t been killed, and shouting against stupid, dead-headed gets who left their cars by the roadside with open doors, and threatening to get the police and have the bewildered culprit sent down for murder and kidnapping.

But the man was in tears, because he’d saved up half his life to get a little van to take his wife and kids along the Trent for fresh air at weekends. He’d polished it faithfully every week, fed it with oats and water like a true yeoman of England grooming his horse, and now this act of God in the shape of the Devil’s imp had caused its shining flank to get sheered off.

I lived in the dark, and didn’t know at the time the awful blow I’d dealt him, only felt the panic blows he’d thrown at me. The cries of humanity were being raised at the fact of my birth, and at the sight of me who was begotten in love — if in nothing else.

Whenever Grandmother cursed, she said it was the Irish in her. She had a great sense of justice, and knew exactly what was right and wrong. I got these feelings from her, and not my mother, who smoked too much to have them, it seemed to me, and who was too nervous ever to pass them on to me if she did feel them somewhere deep inside her. It was true though that my grandmother was Irish, for she told me later that her grandparents had come to England from County Mayo a hundred years ago. She talked about the Famine which was caused by the terrible English, something I took in silence because I thought that perhaps my father had been English (whoever he was) and that though my grandmother had the right to slur him I hadn’t. When I hinted this she gave a great Irish laugh and said he might have been American for all anyone knew, and that, if he was American maybe he was Irish, in which case my boy you’re altogether one of us. I didn’t know what to make of this and didn’t much care, because I lived in Nottingham, and that was the world to me.

I was spoiled as only a bastard can be spoiled, unless he’s ruined by being despised. I sat on a wall and aimed pebbles at passers-by, dropping over on to a wasteground when they saw me. My grandmother told me to be good, but I didn’t know what she meant because she couldn’t show me. All she could do was open her mouth and let go sounds like a flood-warning when she told me what would happen if I didn’t be good. But even this was so comforting in its tone of care and love that I laughed and asked for more cake, which she invariably gave me.

School was the torment of my life, and every morning my mother left me early by the closed gates because she had to be on her way and get to work by eight o’clock. She put a three-penny bit in my hand, and when I saw the shop opening across the street I’d saunter there and buy a lucky bag of sweets that tasted like honey as I sucked them, leaning against the school wall.

When the other kids asked what job my father did I said I hadn’t got one because he’d been killed in the war — which may have been true for all I cared. But even at five or six I thought my mother hadn’t married because no man would own me, and I didn’t much mind this, for I was used to it, and anyway liked to have her to myself. Sometimes she bundled me off to Grandma’s at Beeston while she went to Blackpool or London, but this was a glorious holiday because then I didn’t have to go to school.

My grandfather was the best of men to me, though when he stayed home from work and drank a lot of beer he sometimes got nasty-tempered and called me a bastard — which is what I understood a boy to be whose mother couldn’t find a husband to live with her.

One day when I picked up some marbles in the playground the boy cursed me by shouting I was a rotten bastard. I thought he’d rumbled my secret, and hit him so hard it got around I really was a bastard. Not that this grieved me because nobody had any proof, and also I’d become pals with a couple of boys who I felt sure were as much bastards as I was.

One was Alfie Bottesford who lived on Norton Street, and he had no father. His mother was fat and wore glasses, and she worked at Player’s on a cigarette machine. For a long time I imagined her sitting at a bench with a little rubber-rollered fagmaker in her hands, turning up cigarettes all day that other women smoothed and put into the packets to be sold in shops. Alfie was her only boy, and his great passion when he wasn’t at school, was playing marbles on the cobbled street. When he wasn’t playing marbles with himself he was eating bread and treacle. I never saw him eating anything else. Sometimes when I went to his house after school his mother would give me bread and treacle, which I ate hungrily because I had an hour to wait before being able to go home and find my mother there. Mrs Bottesford would also give me a cup of tea that was so strong it smelled like iodine. Being a man of many colours I drank it down, and dreamed all night, dosed by the fire-and-brimstone of that awful meal.

I was taught to read and write at school, but not much else. The teachers pushed me to the back, and ignored me. But out of spite, and perhaps a desire to please, I got good marks in reading and writing. Then they kept me at the back of the class because I didn’t seem to need the same attention as those duffers who couldn’t even learn that much. At about this time, when I was seven, my mother and grandmother got wind of a nearby house that had been abandoned. Someone had done a moonlight flit to Birmingham and left a lot of stuff behind because the van was full. So my mother shuffled herself through the scullery window one afternoon and opened the door for me and Grandma. There wasn’t much loot except a few old tats and pots, but I went into the parlour and saw that the floor was covered with large books of music. They were scattered everywhere and I sat looking through them, fascinated by the sheets of complex musical notation. They stood out black and plain — quavers and crotchets and minims, words I already knew from school — and I ran my fingers over them as if they were written in braille. I took two away under my arm, and was proud to own them, though later they disappeared to I don’t know where, but for years afterwards those lines of soundless music went through my dreams stoked by Mrs Bottesford’s iodized tea that you may have been able to stand a spoon in, as the saying goes, but could not have stood up in yourself.

My Beeston pal was Billy King, whose family lived in a cellar on Regent Street. He was unique among my friends in that he never asked me a single question during the year we knew each other, not even so much as what time do you think it is? or, are you hungry? This didn’t worry me, because having a fatal flaw to hide, I felt that his taciturnity in this respect was all to the good. But I regretted it when in my natural and more exuberant curiosity I wanted to ask questions of him, only to be met by a mind your own business, or don’t ask questions then you’ll get told no lies, or, if he was in an affable mood because he’d been able to acquire one of his father’s cigarettes, he’d simply say nothing at all, and dig both hands deeper into his pockets as he puffed ceremoniously away. I had to wait for him to tell me things of his own free will, and when he did it was like rich seeds falling on three-year fallow land as they took effect in my imagination, and the slightest event that happened to him achieved unwarranted growth. I mention this as a possible reason why I later became such a good listener, and often held back from asking the right sort of questions. People always tell you more when their boiling heart burst of its own accord, and I liked listening to stories, true or false, not out of idleness and the inability to tell my own, but because I am a gullible and good-natured man who listens to other people’s troubles soothingly, and who, while hearing obvious lies and boastings, accepts the entertainment of them without questioning their morality — unless I fall a victim to their tricks.

Yet, how could I be a born listener if I had an Irish grandmother? The fact was that she told me few ancestral stories that I could repeat, at this early age or even later. Mostly she did little except laugh and shout, and occasionally threaten her husband when he got too drunk to dig the garden, and bawl after her daughter who hadn’t been to collect me for three weeks. But I loved my grandparents even more than if they’d been my real parents, since it was two to one against. The proof of this is that when my mother left me at home to go to sleep at night because she was going up to the boozer with some boyfriend or other, I didn’t cry or let it worry me. Yet when at Grandma’s she and Grandad wanted to go for a walk or a drink I cried and all but panicked at being left on my own. The end of the world seemed close as the summer evening sun came into my bedroom and I had no one to share its light with. I wasn’t a mother’s boy, but a grandparents’ boy, and if one wants to divide children up I suppose that isn’t a bad way to do it.

I never went into Billy King’s cellar when I called for him but shouted down the grating that spread its steel bars under my feet. He’d come running out of the house to which the cellar belonged. His mother and father, who lived down there with two other children, had rented it on the understanding that they’d only use it to store furniture while Mr King found another house. But having been thrown out, the family had nowhere to go, and so camped between its whitewashed walls. Once, Billy came out totally black and bruised, saying that a coalman had taken off the grating that morning by mistake and dropped a full hundredweight down the sloping chute on to the children’s bed below, and if it hadn’t been that they were curled together under the clothes in one snug ball then their heads might have suffered from that thoughtless avalanche.

The winter was the worst in living memory, and in an igloo built around my grandad’s tree, Billy and I ate cakes and chocolate that we’d stolen from shops, looking out through a window-hole towards the gate in case anyone should come in after us. Our knees were wet on the floor of snow and soil, but it was our hideout that no one would imagine man or beast to be in, and we sat for hours in silence like two vagabonds waiting to be led off and hanged. The true and dreadful world was beyond the ice, and in our tomb of refuge we were untouchable because no grown man could crawl down that inlet of a hole — though at night in bed I dreamed of a pickaxe splitting through the ice-dome roof and barely missing Billy and me.

When spring came our house melted into the soil, till only a patch of black earth was left around the tree. Billy and I climbed over a wall off the High Street and found a fruiterer’s cart inside that was loaded for his next day’s outing. We threw as many tins as we could over the wall and packed them into Billy’s barrow, pushing it away in the dark. We stopped by Billy’s cellar to lift off the grating and roll down his part of the loot, which fell softly on to the children’s bed. His underworld parents thought it food from heaven, and stowed it in the sideboard. Grandma was glad of my share, and opened two tins of chunks that night to have with our bread and butter.

I saw a policeman and the man who owned the fruit barrow come into the gate, and for the first time shot up Grandad’s tree, to the topmost branches, without any effort at all. They begged me to come down, but I hung on like a cat, eyes paralysed at that half-circle waiting to drag me to the darkest prison as soon as my feet touched earth. But a bigger voice than mine had a say in what I did, for the branch snapped, and as it splintered somewhere behind my feet I felt that this was my plain death, that at lucky seven years I was bound for hell, and shouted in terror as I felt myself flying down.

Arms spread wide like a bird’s wings, as if to clutch at the horizon and hold myself safe, I hit the ground before the branch, and felt it bounce by my side a half-second later. I was stunned and scratched, and some of my teeth were loose, but otherwise I was sound enough when Grandmother carried me into the house and sat me down; screaming all the while at the policeman: ‘Murderers! Murderers! You’d kill a child for a few tins of fruit!’ My grandfather went into the parlour with the policeman and the fruitseller, and settled everything with ten shillings recompense, and a few glasses of best Irish whiskey.

The next day I skulked around the garden before he got up. Grandmother had gone shopping, and I suddenly saw him at the back door beckoning me. ‘What for?’ I said.

‘Come here, my boy.’

When I got close he gave me a ferocious slap across the face that bundled me against the shed. He picked me up and threw me half across the garden: ‘Next time, don’t get caught, d’you hear me? Never get caught.’ He slammed the door and went in to eat his breakfast.

It was all right for him, but how was it possible to separate getting caught from stealing? If anybody could tell me, I’d listen eagerly. I was forbidden to leave the garden for a week, but got out before then by a bit of skilful climbing and ran off to find Billy King. Putting my face to the cellar grate I softly called his name, then louder when he didn’t answer, and louder still. Neither he nor his family were there, and I could only assume they’d found a house at last. Wherever it was, it must have been a long way off.

All I liked to do at school was read. There wasn’t much else. I didn’t like arithmetic, and couldn’t stomach writing. Reading took me right out of school, and into the world of the book-adventure, so it was like not being at school at all, and was the only way to avoid it without playing truant. The teacher caught me at it time and time again, but I always took the book back that he snatched from me, even when he lost his temper and thumped me. He was a young man, so it puzzled him, because he couldn’t honestly call me the fool I probably was for not learning other things as well.

At home I wouldn’t be seen dead reading a book, not until I left school anyway. If I did they’d have thought I was either mad or ill, and I didn’t want them tucking me up in bed or sending for a doctor without good reason. When I did leave school, I read at work, and it was taken more amiss than before. After being sacked for this from a couple of factories (that I couldn’t stand anyway because of the stink and noise, not to mention the work) I was careful to get jobs as an errand boy or messenger, pushing a bike with a high front loaded with cloth or groceries from one place to another. On my way back I’d lean the bike by the wall of a canal bridge and take half an hour at my book or comic. I was consequently looked on as intelligent because I never lost my way, but not very diligent because I always took so long over it.

On one trip I lingered through town and looked in a bookshop window. One of the titles which caught my eye was The Way of All Flesh. I stood in my overalls and gazed at it, and when a young girl also looked into the window I felt embarrassed in case she thought I had nothing but eyes for a book with a title like that. In a way I had, but I held my ground. I’d always liked books about sex, and this one I hadn’t heard of, and as it was a paperback I went in to buy it. The girl had also decided to buy something, a young fair beauty of an office tart no doubt, and she stood by the row of books wherein I knew I would find the one I was looking for. So I held back, and glanced at a row of prayer books and Bibles, and I couldn’t understand why they were in the same shop with the sort of book I longed to get.

An assistant asked what I wanted, and I told him I was just looking around, so the toffee-nose slunk back to his desk to wrap up parcels. I’d been out from my work-place too long to stay much more, and because the girl wouldn’t move from the paperback shelves I made up my mind to come again the following day. This I did, handed the book to the man, who took my money and slid it into a bag so that no one would I’d stolen it as I went out.

But I’d slid one book under my jacket, on the principle of buy one — nick one, which merely meant I’d got them both for half-price. I certainly wasn’t a thief, to get them for nothing. The book I’d taken free was called The Divine Comedy because I thought that was dirty as well, especially as it was written by an Italian. I was so pleased with my haul I began reading by the fire that night after Mother had gone out. My eyes were avid and my mind eager as I propped both feet on the coal scuttle and opened The Way of All Flesh. I didn’t imagine it would be easy, because I knew that in this sort of Penguin book you could hardly expect to read about anybody in bed together for the first fifty pages. But it turned out to be so interesting that I stuck at it, and by the time Mother came back at half past ten I’d forgotten what I’d expected from the book when I opened it.

After that, other good books were chewed into my maw, and though I never got the throstle-titillation that drew me to them in the first place (which is not to say I was always disappointed), I nevertheless saw that there was more to books than reading about sex and gangsters. I had always been unsatisfied by these two subjects, because the sex seemed unreal and always had to be paid for in some grisly way, and the gangsters were all rotten and made of cardboard and so got what they deserved at the first punch of the law. I can see how innocent I was, and though this may be usual in any ordinary youth it was no great advantage if you were a bastard. While labouring under my pleasurable education of reading, I began to see that all was not well with the life I had chosen to lead, because it was life itself that had chosen to lead me a dance that. I did not want. To put it bluntly, I was fed up with work, with home, and with living the way I did.

I was eighteen by the time this slow fuse started burning, as if my litmus toes had been touched off and were smoking slowly up to my heart. When Mother asked what was up I said the sky, and grabbed my coat to go, before she could begin her carpet-bombing about how useless and dead stupid I was. She would have been right, and I couldn’t stand that, so the only thing left was to wander up Norton Street and see if Alfie Bottesford was back yet from the foundry office he worked at.

It was mid-week but he unlatched the door wearing a collar and tie, creased trousers, smart coat, and an extra polish to his glasses. ‘Are you in?’ I asked.

‘I might be,’ he said, ‘but my girl is here.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said, edging closer.

He opened wider: ‘Come in, then,’ whispering in the scullery: ‘Her name’s Claudine, and we’re going steady.’

I boggled at this, and he introduced me (as he called it: I’d never been ‘introduced’ before) in the proper way, meaning he allowed us to shake hands, which was his first and last mistake. ‘This is my girlfriend, Claudine Forks,’ he said. ‘Claudine, this is an old friend of mine, Michael Cullen.’

She sat back in an armchair by the fire, and I tried to catch her eye and give her the wink while Alfie was turning the record over on his gramophone. She had a small mouth and big breasts, and as she sat back I could see halfway up her thin legs.

There wasn’t much of a welcome for me from either her or Alfie, and I supposed that his mother was out, and that they’d expected a frolic all to themselves before she came back. I wanted to spoil their fun, if not take it over, and when Alfie went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, which he saw as the quickest way of getting me to go, I concentrated my gaze on his sweetheart, till she stood up and looked along the mantelshelf for a cigarette.

‘I’ve got some,’ I said, flashing them under her nose. ‘Make us a sandwich while you’re at it,’ I called to Alfie. Before she put the fag to her mouth I kissed her, and pulled her into my chest. She struggled, but seemed well practised at making no noise. ‘If you say owt,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll say you kissed me first.’ Her eyes were like octopus lamps at this prime mischief, so I kissed her again and pressed her so that I could feel all she’d got.

I struck a match and lit her fag, and Alfie fried under his jealousy when he saw us so close. It baffled him, but Claudine took his arm and kissed him to prove that all was well, and encouraged by this he pulled her on to his knee and kept her until the red kettle on the gas stove whistled half-time and made him ease her off and rush into the scullery.

It was my turn and I lost no time about it. I sucked her mouth and closed those heavy eyes, my leg forcing hers apart so that she breathed hard and I thought I’d got her on my hands for life, until I remembered Alfie in the kitchen, at which I put my hand down and almost into her drawers.

She hissed like a snake and pushed me away. ‘You dirty bastard!’

‘What’s going on?’ said Alfie.

‘He knows,’ she said, tight-lipped and scarlet.

‘I only asked if she’d got a sister I could be introduced to,’ I said. ‘But I know when I’m not wanted. You can keep your tea and sandwiches. I hope it gets cold and stale while you get stuck into your hearthrug pie and can’t get out. I won’t stay where I’m not welcome.’

From the scullery door I added a bit more, and Alfie hovered in a worried fashion, trying to get a word in, while his girlfriend stood with her face even tenser, as if feeling guilty already at any falsehoods I might throw into their den. ‘Another thing,’ I added, staring at Claudine so that Alfie turned pale. ‘As far as I know I’m not the only bastard in this room, and maybe not the only dirty one, either.’

‘Shurrup,’ Alfie screamed, pushing me out so hard that I turned and pushed him back half across the room. I went of my own accord, slamming the door with less force than either of them expected.

I forgot about her in the next few days, because I was hard at it trying to get a date with one of the shopgirls at work who’d caught me reading a book in the warehouse and, on seeing what it was, thought I might be interesting enough to get to know. So one Saturday morning as I was walking up Wheeler Gate in the sunshine, I saw Claudine coming down the same side of the street, and I greeted her as if we were friends from long ago.

‘What do you want?’ she snapped, stopping nevertheless. She wore a purple summer coat and thick red lipstick, dark stockings, and a hairstyle puffed high.

My wanting her came back, and the fact that this might have been because she was Alfie’s steady girlfriend didn’t bother me a bit. ‘I’ve been hoping I’d bump into you,’ I said, ‘to say I was sorry for running out on you the other night.’

‘Is that all you’re sorry about?’ she said.

‘If it comes to that,’ I answered, ‘maybe you ought to apologize to me as well, for what you called me.’

‘What did you expect, shoving your hand up my clothes like that. I just came right out with it.’

‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’

‘P’raps next time you will.’

‘I hope so. I’m not usually a dirty beast. Only sometimes.’

‘That’s too often for me,’ she said.

‘Not according to Alfie,’ and I watched her go so red I didn’t notice the coat or lipstick any more. ‘Did I say something wrong?’ I added, as if trembling for my sinful way of talking. ‘Alfie and me are old pals, right from birth. We talk a lot to each other. It don’t mean much, duck.’

She got out a few words at last: ‘He said he’d stopped seeing you, after that night. He swore he’d never talk to you again.’

‘You know how it is,’ I said, ‘we’re old mates. It ain’t so easy for him. Maybe he meant to break it off bit by bit. Don’t think Alfie’s a liar. He’s one of the best.’

‘I’ll tell him a thing or two.’

I asked her not to: ‘It ain’t worth it if you’re going steady. Why break it up for a thing like this? Let’s go into that Lyons on Long Row for a cup of tea.’ She looked around, as if to find her mother there and ask if it would be all right. ‘Everybody talks about everybody else,’ I said, ‘but nobody thinks any the worse. I could tell you a few things that happen at the place I work at, but I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, so why bother?’

Over a cup of tea, she said bitterly: ‘I suppose Alfie told you everything about me?’

‘Only that you were going steady, and that that made it all right, whatever you did between you.’ I was anxious to get off this topic, because though it had served its purpose in bringing us closer together than I’d expected, it might now shove us apart if it went on too long. I wanted to get off with Claudine, not push her into a quarrel with Alfie which might only get them back into an even cosier hugger-mugger. Nor did I want to discuss their problems as if I was her brother. If we’d been in a more private place I’d have done something as daring as I had on the first night, just to bring us back to reality, and with this in mind I touched her wrist across the table and, when this wasn’t repulsed, made a brief stroke at her knee under the table, but only for a second so that not having had time to push it away she began to wonder whether I’d done it at all. Which was all right by me because she didn’t even blush, of which I was glad because when she did it made her look angry, an expression which took away the few good looks she had.

‘I’ve just been around the bookshops,’ I told her, ‘but there wasn’t much worth buying this morning. I usually call at them on Saturday. I like to get through a couple of books a week.’

‘I didn’t think you were like that. You looked a bit rough the other night.’

‘That’s because I wasn’t wearing my best. I didn’t expect you to be at Alfie’s. It was a very pleasant surprise.’

‘You didn’t act very nice, either.’

‘Don’t get back to that, Claudine. I didn’t know what I was doing. I can be polite — but not all the time. It’s all right for Alfie, because he was brought up on bread and treacle, and iodine tea.’

She laughed: ‘Was he? He never told me that.’

‘I’ve known him since we was in nappies together.’

‘What happened to his father, then?’

‘He was killed in the war, like mine.’

‘I was beginning to think he’d never had one,’ she said. ‘I’d never go with anybody like that.’

‘Why didn’t he tell you straight?’ I said, riled at having to stick up for him like this. ‘His old man was drowned off the coast of Norway. Mine was bombed in Egypt. Same thing.’

‘That makes a big difference,’ she said. ‘He died for his country.’

‘Lots did. It didn’t do them much good, though. Have another tea?’

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said. ‘I’m late already. I was supposed to do some shopping.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Meet me after dinner and we’ll go for a walk.’

‘I’m not sure about that,’ she pouted with those dangerous red lips. When she smiled she showed her teeth, and I liked that.

‘Bring Alfie if you like. We’ll all go for a walk. He might like that.’ She agreed to this when I put her on the bus, and I was in such confused and happy fettle that I went back to the bookshop and saw four titles straight away that interested me. Next day Claudine turned up alone, as I had hoped she would.

If there’s anything better than reading books, it’s going out with a young girl. A book takes you into another world, but a girl stamps you into the soil. Or, rather, you stamp her into the soil, or try to when you’re on top of her behind some bushes and you’re dying to go on that longest journey into the sweetest night of all. One time I would plead, the next I would bully, then I’d be silent and try pressing my own way onwards like a bull, but for months I never got anywhere. We lay between the trees in Shaws Plantation, away from everyone in the summer silence. I lit a cigarette, and passed it to her, then did one for myself. She was ruffled a bit, in her wine-dark velvet dress, and was glad of the soothing smoke.

‘Alfie’s had it often enough off you,’ I complained, ‘so I don’t know why you’re holding out.’

‘Alfie and I are going steady, and that makes all the difference.’

‘We can go steady if you like.’

‘You only say that to get what you want,’ she answered sharply, fastening the top button of her blouse which had come undone in the scrabble.

‘So does Alfie, I expect.’

‘He doesn’t. He really means it when he says we’re going steady.’

‘Me too,’ I protested, so thwarted I could have paralysed her, thinking that if I heard that mincing phrase about ‘going steady’ once more I’d kill whoever said it and lob myself off Castle Rock.

The kisses came soft and fulsome, but they weren’t what I wanted unless they paved the footpath to the end which I had in view. She moaned and hugged and bit my ear but whenever my hand strayed close, her eyes opened wide with the stony lift of common-sense and she froze away from me. I was baffled, and didn’t know how to go on, and more than once I left her late at night, feeling full of rage at the rice pudding down my leg. She worked in the City Combine offices, and scorned me for the fact that I was an errand boy. She could never love me because she didn’t respect me, yet I wasn’t the sort to show myself at her beck and call by trying to ‘get on’. What kept her interested in me was my ancient friendship with Alfie, as well as my mysterious ability to read books that she could hardly understand. But I kept on and on at her in the hope that tomorrow or next week our love-life would take the great leap forward. I hung on like a drunken man at a one-armed bandit, always hoping for the jackpot. It occurred to me in my frustrated misery that maybe she was taking it out on me to keep herself going nice and lovely with Alfie. The only way I could get it was by straightforward rape, and though I was strong I didn’t feel strong enough for that. Alfie didn’t know about our weekly meetings, and at first, when I had hopes, I didn’t want him to get to know, whereas in those early days Claudine wouldn’t have minded if he had found out, because I think in some way she wanted to get her own back on him for having supposedly spilled the beans to me about their love-life. But as time went on, meaning weeks, but they seemed like years, I began to see that there might be some advantage in letting him know what was happening, or at least telling Claudine that this was in my mind. I was slowly brought to this, seeing that, as time still went on, the idea of Alfie getting to know appealed less and less to her, because of the precautions she began to take when arranging to meet me. Not having it while I was in full blood sharpened my wits and understanding, which is something to be said for it.

We sat in a coffee bar on Parliament Street, where both of us had met straight out of work. We had a cake to hold back the gnawing starvoes, and I was trying to persuade her to come up Strelley where we could fan out into the fields and woods. But, though it was dry and still daylight I couldn’t make much headway. ‘I don’t feel like it,’ she said. ‘It’s too much bother, going all that way. You can see me home, though.’

‘Are you meeting Alfie?’ I asked, a sudden suspicion.

‘I want to watch television. Mam had one come yesterday. Bought it out of her savings. Dad would never buy anything because he don’t earn that much.’

She wanted me to go home and watch television with her, seated between her struggling happy-saver parents, but I had another idea. ‘I saw Alfie last night,’ I said, in all innocence. At this, she had a very uneasy glint in her eyes. ‘We just talked about this and that,’ I added. ‘Nowt unusual.’

‘Is that all?’

‘He did seem a bit worried. Have another cake? Go on. I’ll treat you to it.’

She was too interested to eat. ‘What was up with him? Did he say?’

‘He did, but it was between mates.’

‘Did he make you promise not to tell anybody?’

I smiled: ‘He didn’t need to.’

The cake had smeared her lipstick, and she took a mirror from her handbag to smooth it right. ‘Was it about me?’

‘He’s got his eyes on another girl and he’s wondering whether to chuck you up.’

Her lip trembled: ‘You’re a liar.’

‘I told him he’d be a fool to pack you in. I talked and talked to him, so I don’t think he will now.’

She looked around the coffee bar, as if to make sure no one might recognize us and clatfart the news to Alfie. If that happened, he really would pack her in. She stood up. ‘I’m going now. On my own. Don’t follow me.’

‘You’re going to see Alfie?’

She wasn’t a very good liar, so didn’t try: ‘Yes.’

‘You’re wasting your time. He isn’t in tonight. He told me he was going up Carlton to see his grandma.’ She looked done for at this news, believing me all along the line, though I don’t know how she could have been so stupid. I held her hand and pressed it so that she could feel my love. ‘You might as well come up Strelley with me. It’s fine out, and you’ll enjoy a bit of country air.’

She sat down again, and I got her another cup of tea. ‘I’m going home,’ she said, ‘that’s the best thing.’

Now it was my turn to stand up: ‘If that’s how you feel. I’m fed up with this. I’ve got a date at half past six with a girl from our place, who comes in from Tibshelf every day. She’s a smasher.’

‘Don’t you like me any more then?’ Claudine said.

‘Course I do. But I just want to get out of this dump and go for a walk.’

Half an hour later we were passing the Broad Oak pub on the lane towards Strelley, arm in arm. There were some two hours of daylight left, and a warm breeze blew in from the fields. ‘Feeling better?’ — and she answered glumly that she was all right. We turned left after the church and made our way into Spring Wood. A courting couple were snogging on the path in front, so I said: ‘Let’s get farther in off the path.’ She didn’t want to, so I thought it was time to say: ‘Let’s go and have it together. I’m dying for you, Claudine. You’re the first girl I’ve been in love with, and we’ve known each other for months. It’s all right now.’ I pulled her to me, and we met in a wonderful kiss under the heavy rustling leaves.

‘No,’ she said, when I put my hand on her leg. I pushed them apart, and she wondered what was coming.

‘I’m going to see Alfie in my dinner hour tomorrow, and I’ll tell him what’s been going on between us all this time.’

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘How could you be so rotten?’

‘Because I want you. You drive me crazy. But I’ll tell him, and then he’ll go to this new girl he’s got his eyes on. I’ll pack you in as well.’

She laughed it off: ‘There’s plenty of other pebbles on the beach.’

I laughed as well. ‘The sea’s a long way away, and at Skegness it’s all sand.’

She stood silent for a while, then said solemnly: ‘Do you mean it?’

I swore that I did, so she took my hand and said: ‘All right, then.’

‘What do you mean?’ — I wanted it straight and from her own lips.

‘You can do it to me.’

We found a place, and after passionate kisses she lay down, head back on the grass and her legs open. She was warm and somehow her lips were peppery, mixed with the sweetness of her lipstick that seemed to be sliding all over me. I pushed up and took down everything, and after fingering her for some minutes my flesh-rod went sliding chock-a-block into her, and before I began going up and down I made her large breasts spread loose. Then after only a few goes I had the top of my head blown off with sweetness, and just after this she started to shift and bite, before I shrank out of her.

I felt sorry she’d only done this with me on condition I wouldn’t spoil things between her and Alfie, and arm in arm on the way back I was jealous of him for the first time. But I needn’t have been, for though I’d used false words to get her into that wood, the more I saw her after that the less she met Alfie, until we were going steady together, and having it marvellously several times a week in various fields and parks. When our hands clasped on meeting out of work we couldn’t breathe till that smell of grass and full-grown leaves got into our noses. We’d thread our way through hidden paths, branching off from them and hiding absolutely from the world, living in our own house where we could all but strip naked under the trees, and I could bury myself deep into the first love of my life. Both of us wanted it, but she sometimes made it hard for me, so that I had to cajole and struggle, though this was doubly sweet because the end was certain.

After a few weeks of this man-and-wife play I got familiar and facetious, and on our way back from the woods one night I asked if she used to have it so good with my old pal Alfie.

She stopped under a lamp-post and looked at me very seriously: ‘Shall I tell you something? Shall I, Michael?’ Not waiting for me to say yes or no: ‘I will tell you, though. I never had it with Alfie Bottesford. Never. I don’t care whether you believe me or not, but I’m telling the truth. He’d never dare, because when he tried and I put him off (as Mam always said I had to do) he never came back for me but got downhearted and sulked. So in all the time we went together it never came to it.’

We walked on and I was all of a sweat. We were ‘going steady’ and the full force of these soul-treading words came to me now, because if she hadn’t been having it with Alfie, then my little plan to ensnare her into having it with me had done nothing more than ease me into getting ensnared by her. It was hard to say who had set out to get who, but we had certainly got each other now, and that was a fact. She took my arm and leaned on my shoulder as if heaven were about to open and belt down the chimes of multiple church bells on to us. Passing a bus-stop queue I felt as if people were weighing us up in their different ways, thinking that there went another nice young couple to the altar in a few more months. An old man seemed to smile and smirk in the twilight and I felt like thumbing my snout and saying: ‘That’s what you bloody-well think, mate.’ But I squeezed my sweetheart’s hand, and kissed her when we reached the shadow of a hedge.

‘I thought you was a bit quiet,’ she said. ‘I hope that made you feel better.’

‘It did, duck.’

‘Are you coming home with me tonight, Michael?’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll miss the last bus.’

‘Tired?’

‘Not me.’ But I wouldn’t go to her house because that would put the seal on it, for if her parents liked us, we were as good as engaged, and this I couldn’t stomach. There’d been a terrible rash of early marriages at work among the nineteen-year-olds, and I sometimes got the liver-jitters at Claudine’s seriousness. It seemed as if I was being dragged towards a chute not too far in front, and that once on the brink I’d fall into a canning machine and come out at the other end with Claudine in the same tin marked IDEAL MARRIAGE. Where I got this terror from I don’t know, though I suppose it was natural at such an age. Perhaps I didn’t feel like getting tangled in something my mother had never entered into. She was one of those free and independent women who believed they were the equal of any man providing they didn’t get married, so we got on well together as long as we didn’t say much about the way we wanted to live. As a child she’d been thin in the frame, but now she was nearing forty and had put on weight. Men were still like flies around her, though she rarely brought them to the house. When she did I kept out of the way, for I was embarrassed at her getting from them what I was now so assiduously giving to Claudine.

I was absorbed in what I called the three — ings: reading, working, and fucking, and I did all three to the best of my time and ability. But now that I was beginning to feel too tightly held in my closeting with Claudine, I saw that after all one wasn’t made as wise by reading good books as I had thought. I could read, but not at the same time learn, which made it all seem a bit of a gyp, till I laughed it off on realizing that good books were only as much of an escape from the world as sex-and-gangster stories. The solution to this was not to give up reading, which had hit me early as a cure to some disease whose name I did not know, but to go on getting more out of life on the one hand, and learning more from it on the other. There’s no doubt I was mixed up in my feelings, but at least I wasn’t crazy in it as well. Believing this only proved how crazy I really was, though the assumption that I had cool sense stopped me going round in circles, and at least led me to feel I was the most important person in the world.

In the factory, I was tolerated more than employed, though I must have been worth the eight pounds handed to me every Friday night. I carried bales of cloth from the stores to the cutting rooms, sometimes loading finished garments on lorries that drew up to the warehouse bay. The one advantage was getting suits of clothes at a discount, and occasionally for nothing when I worked up nerve enough to walk brazenly out with one wrapped in my overalls. In spite of my slackness, some intelligence had been noted when I suggested a way of speeding up the transport of cloth from one department to another, and the general manager asked one day if I wouldn’t like to work in the office. Wallace Pushpacker had been a major in the Army, had a blustery face and a thick ginger moustache, and I believe he expected me to jump at the chance as a kind of promotion, but he was taken by surprise when I said in a voice as quick and sharp as his that I’d like to think about it first.

When I went off to load another trolley, having left Pushpacker baffled and irritable, I was trembling with the effort of putting the pros and cons of his offer through my machinating mind. It would be a clean job with more money and shorter hours, but on the other hand I dreaded the effect on Claudine. Such news would only confirm that I had it in me after all to GET ON, and was therefore the ONE FOR HER. An engagement would not be more than a few weeks off, and if I didn’t agree to it, it would mean the end of my delicious and fleshly privileges. So I told myself, and I may not have been far wrong, that having asked Pushpacker to let me think it over was considered so much of a cheek that even if I went back and said yes, he’d tell me the job was no longer available because I wasn’t the right material to accept the discipline of office life that his Army rule imposed. In the end I left the factory altogether, and decided to look for some other work.

To Claudine this was as bad as if I’d turned down her suggestion of an engagement, because she looked upon me as a scatterbrained idler who couldn’t keep any job for long. ‘I only left to get a better place,’ I said, sitting in her parlour one night when her parents were out. ‘That was a dead-end joint, and I thought you didn’t like me being there. Now I’ll be able to get something better, maybe even in an office.’

She came across to me on the settee: ‘Oh, Michael, that would be wonderful. I’d really know then that you were serious. You ought to look in the Evening Post and see what you can find. I’ll help you.’ She went into the kitchen and came back with the newspaper, holding it like a great white sheet, as if to smother me.

There was a homely passion between us that night, and we sat close and petted each other, though afraid to lay down to it in case somebody should suddenly come back to the house. Such clandestine satisfaction made the air deeper between us than if we had been in the freedom of the wood. I went home with six addresses of various city firms in my wallet, and promised faithfully to go bright and early to each one next morning.

I avoided decisions by thinking too far ahead, by wanting Fate to act for me. When it did I complained and cursed, but that was all right because by then it was too late. I didn’t mind what happened to me, as long as there was no possibility that I could have made things any better. Because of that I learned early to have no vain regrets, and never to recall the lost chances that, had I taken them, might have made life easier for me.

True to my promise, I put on the best suit I had ever stolen, which would have cost twenty guineas if I’d bought it in a shop, and called at the first office by half past nine. I was fairly all right in my appearance, being five feet ten in height and, in spite of the lackadaisical style of work since leaving school, far from beefy about it. In fact what with steaming off so often with Claudine and walking umpteen miles a week with her, I could almost be described as slim, and perhaps this as much as anything else made me look as if I had some wits about me. There was also something in my manner that made me seem a year or two older than I was, possibly connected as well to my manly practices with Claudine, and augmented by that worry of getting in so deep with her that I wouldn’t be able to shuffle out. Concern with worldly preoccupations was stamped quite clearly on my face, for I’d noticed it one morning gazing in the mirror before shaving, and since it suited me I decided to cultivate the picture it gave to my features, no matter how false it might be. This is only to explain that I got the second job I applied for, which was that of general run-about at Pitch and Blender’s, the estate agents in town.

It seemed as if a river, five hundred yards wide, separated me from the last work I was at. At this new place I was never told what to do. I was always asked — though if I refused I’d have been thrown out on my neck just like in any other dead-end job. But I was puffed up with snakey pride, and on meeting Claudine after my first day, she had tears of dewy joy in her eyes. She talked to me, when she’d cleared her throat, about how I must be ‘obliging’ and ‘show willing’ in my new ‘situation’, said I must never be late, and always wear a clean suit. This was all very well, I informed her, but when I was told to run out now and again for tea or coffee from the nearby bar, I didn’t much fancy the slops and stains that made my suit look like a map of the moon.

Yet it was so easy that I stuck it, and in a few weeks I was no longer sent to get tea because a new youth was taken on. I cyclostyled details of houses for sale in Nottingham and the country, as well as taking over Miss Bolsover’s desk while she went to lunch (it was lunch now, not dinner) and answering the telephone. The blunt edges of my accent went in record time. I got through my first months by playing the silent man, as far as I could, listening to other people’s speech, and copying the mannerisms of Mr Weekley, the boss.

I suppose I’m obliged to show how much I suffered at changing from one ‘class’ of job to another, how impressed I was at handling a typewriter and duplicating machine instead of a capstan-lathe or Jacquard-cutter. Maybe I ought to say what clothes people wore and tell of the witty things they said, how they talked about house deals and money, and making good marriages, and spending a pound on a haircut and five bob for a cup of coffee. But all this meant nothing — and in any case I’ve forgotten what effect it had on me. Swimming in the sea, all you want to do is keep the salt out of your mouth. You fix your gaze on the horizon, even if it’s only a few feet away at the top of the next wave.

Yet when I met any of my friends who still slogged in factories I used my homeliest Radford accent, just to show that I wasn’t being influenced by the toffee-nosed set I was how forced by my peculiar and unavoidable streak of perversity to associate with. This patronizing bonhomie, this twisted attempt to put things back as they were, when in a way it had always been too late, didn’t usually go down very well, for I’d be met by a combination of cynical smile and blank stare, or a simple request to bogger off out of the way.

I often put on this broad accent in front of Claudine when I sensed she was thinking that, since I had been caught in the treadmill of getting on at work, she might now begin to draw me close into another sort of trap. At such times I could Sound so low and ignorant that, judging by her look of unconcealed dislike, it seemed as if her heart had become a plastic bag full of ice cubes. At times it was the only defence I had, a thin red line of real blood holding me back from the land of milk and water beyond. Still, by all the rules of the heart (whatever they are: I still don’t think I know) I ought to admit that I was in love with Claudine.

Because of something now and again in her appearance, and of the way that her intentions always turned out to be realized, and her low-grade homilies being invariably right, I got the feeling that she was a lot older than me, and than she said she was, so that now and again I went to sleep in a sweat of panic. This was only my imagination, though the thought was so potent that I often felt people looking at us and wondering why I was going out with an older girl. Yet it was so marvellous making love to her, and I hoped she thought so too, that we soon felt we actually owned the woods and fields that had become so familiar to us. I was only put off this state of paradise by her nagging at me to get on. I didn’t know where she’d got it from, certainly not her parents, because I found out that her mother was a member of the Communist Party and that her father drove a lorry and couldn’t care less about anything except his twenty quid a week. Yet it only came to her in fits and starts, and as long as I stayed on the alert I felt I could handle it.

But it stuck in my craw, really, when she got on to me about saving money. This actually frightened me, not because I was incapable of it, but because I knew what she wanted me to use it for. The fact was, and she didn’t know it because it was more than my neck was worth to tell her, that I’d been saving money ever since starting work four years ago. It was part of my nature to do so. I did it very carefully and secretly because if I let on about it to Mam she’d ask me now and again to lend her some. And how can you ask your mother to pay it back, or even accept it if she should offer to? So I’d had practice at keeping the fact to myself. Not that it amounted to much: just over a hundred pounds, but I guarded it like a miser without knowing what I would ever use it for. So when Claudine asked me to start saving money I was afraid that out of pride and to please her, I might in a weak moment let on that I’d already been doing so for a long time.

The one occasion I broke into my savings was to buy a superfine, capacious, pigskin lock-up briefcase that I took to work every morning and that cost twelve pounds. I made sure there was always a good book inside, provided free by the library, as well as my morning copy of The Times discreetly hidden. I also read books on architecture and surveying, not that I was hoping to learn anything and take exams, but merely to be able to follow conversations which took place around me. At first it had seemed as if I were living in the dark, because practically everything said was incomprehensible to me. I’d always had a horror of the dark, but in this instance I knew I’d be able to remedy it. I began to use my knowledge in conversation, and then the light really did shine on me, so much so that Mr Weekley suggested I might be far more useful to the firm than I was at present if I had driving lessons and got a licence. So for a while I took one every morning, at the firm’s time and expense. When the instructor asked if I’d had any previous experience I didn’t mention the time when, at the age of six, I’d let off the brakes of a man’s van and got it trundling down the street into a privet hedge.

I may have been in the dark for a while, but never so much as the man called Wainfleet who turned up at our office every day looking for a house to buy. He was probably known at every estate agent’s in the city, and had been coming to Pitch and Blender’s for at least six months, so the others told me, calling several times a week and always at exactly eleven in the morning. An offer was made to put him on our mailing list, but he preferred the human contact of visiting us, in case anything good turned up, so that he could then get straight out and see it. A twenty-four-hour delay till the notification reached him might cause somebody else to get there first, and make a deposit while he was still reading the particulars over breakfast — which seemed to be the only nightmare he ever had.

He was more than forty years old, always wearing the same suit of salt-and-pepper drag, and a mackintosh of military cut, as well as a dark green hat with the faintest of feathers in it. His clean-shaven face was slightly flushed, with ordnance-survey veins on the cheeks, and his brown eyes turned anxious on coming in, as if he thought somebody might have been just before him and hared off to see the house that he himself had been dreaming about all his life. ‘Good morning,’ he’d say, putting a good face on it. ‘I’ve called to see whether you might know of a country place for sale in the vicinity — eight rooms, up to four thousand pounds. Could go a chip higher for something special.’

He played it as if he were seeing us for the first time, and while I went through the books with him he chatted affably about how factory strikes should be illegal, and how bad the weather was. Now and again, he’d ask one of us to show him a house that sounded interesting, but he’d invariably come back dejected because he said he saw signs of wet rot, dry rot, rising damp, or death-watch beetle — sometimes all of them together. Or he found it too noisy, not sufficiently isolated, not enough garden, too close to a farmyard; or the ground was low-lying and might be subjected to river floods in spring. Sometimes it was too near an aerodrome, or he’d mention train whistles in the distance that nobody else could hear, or he thought that the presence of a colliery eight miles away might bring a risk of subsidence, so that one morning his bed would slide so far into the earth that a group of colliers with their picks and lamps would suddenly open their broad grins into his waking up. If all these conditions didn’t exist he’d say it was a pity the house hadn’t got central heating, or that he thought, on reflection, that he might after all need an extra room, or that on thinking it over the price seemed a bit too high.

For all these vacillations, he appeared to be, when coming briskly through the door, a man who’d been used to making quick and firm decisions all his life, and who perhaps still did in whatever Ms work was. Nobody had ever lost patience with him. Mr Weekley had once taken him over personally, and after showing him one very suitable property that no one else had yet seen, actually brought him to the point of getting him to make an offer for it, which was accepted. Wainfleet then had the house surveyed, and all seemed to be going through to the expected conclusion, but then he lost his nerve and pulled out, with the tale that his surveyor had told him the place would fall down if he slammed the door too hard.

‘So we don’t pay much attention to him,’ Weekley told me. ‘You’ll get used to such people. They’re serious, but can’t make up their minds. They don’t even want you to make up their minds for them. Years ago I saw one man taken from this office straight to the lunatic asylum. He’d screwed himself up so tight over the months he’d been looking at houses that he just exploded one day, challenged us all to fisticuffs, and then wrecked the office before he was taken off. There aren’t many like that, mind you, but you get them now and again, and they plague the life out of us. Some of the worst are married couples who come around saying they are wanting a house, not the ones who were married last week, but those who’ve been married six or seven years and are looking for a place to stop the marriage breaking up. Estate agents run quite a service! Thank the Lord most people are able to make decisions, even though they are the wrong ones. But I expect we shall get rid of Wainfleet sooner or later, one way or the other.’

He came back after a fortnight, during which Mr Weekley lost his irritation, and began his search all over again. One morning another and younger client was going out, holding a foolscap sheet with the details of a property on it, and called to us: ‘All right. I’ll drive out and have a look at it right away. Sounds just the thing.’

Wainfleet stopped halfway to the counter, his face white, as if he had lost the only chance in his life by just five minutes. ‘What was it?’ he stammered. ‘Is it something new?’

I laughed: ‘It’s only a bungalow near Farnsfield. Wouldn’t suit you, Mr Wainfleet.’

It was, in fact, exactly what he was looking for.

‘You’re lying,’ he cried.

I thought he was going to punch me, so, jumped back a bit. ‘Tek another step forward, and I’ll brain yer.’

He went down at this: ‘Sorry. Shouldn’t have said that.’

There was nobody else in the outer office, and an idea came to me, vague and newborn as it was: ‘Listen,’ I said in a low voice, leaning over to him, ‘I’ll get you that house, if you want it. But it costs four thousand three hundred, and no offers.’ I thought that in his quest for hearth and home he needed an extra bit of personal service to make him think that, not only was the house unique, but that the rest of the world was all right as well, since he who was doing him the favour (meaning me) knew his place in it.

My hands shook in case somebody came from the inner office: ‘The bloke who went to look at it in his sports car is bound to pay a deposit as soon as he sees it. He’s been coming at twelve o’clock every day for the last three years. I don’t know why, but he came at half past ten today. Still, don’t worry, sir. If you really want it I should be able to pull it off for a good client like yourself. I’ll meet you in the Eight Bells tomorrow at one o’clock. Keep the afternoon free to look at it. Got that?’

When he went I typed a sheet giving full particulars of the house, but putting the price at three hundred pounds more than the four thousand asked for, so that I could show it to Wainfleet next day.

Mr Weekley came in and saw I was trembling and as white as clay. ‘My God, Cullen, what’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know, sir. Seem to have the flu.’

‘It’s a bit slack, so you’d better go home.’

‘I’ll be all right after lunch, Mr Weekley.’

‘Do as I tell you,’ he snapped. ‘Sleep it off.’

I sniffed: ‘Perhaps you’re right, sir.’

‘Of course I bloody-well am.’

They thought a lot of me at that firm, but I was crazy enough to imagine they’d go on doing so for ever. Not that I had any intention of being there all that long, but at least I expected to leave only when I was ready, under my own good steam. Instead of going home I took a bus to Farnsfield to see Mr Clegg, who owned the house that was for sale.

It was a long job getting round to my real business, because first of all Clegg showed me over the house because I said I was interested in it, thinking that I wanted to buy it. If I’d had the money I would have, since it had good flower and vegetable gardens at the back and a landing-ground lawn at the front, as well as an orchard and paddock. There was no better spot for Claudine and myself to sport in as man and wife, without troubles and for ever and ever, not even an amen necessary to see us into heaven. Maybe it was the accidental sight of this Georgian fairy-box house that set my thoughts bending at last towards hers.

After lots of argy-bargy it appeared that the man in the sports car had offered the full asking price, and Clegg had accepted it. He told me that the house was too big for him, since his wife and kids had left. All he wanted was a small flat in Leicester, where he had relations, not to mention a few friends.

‘You see, I’d been married twenty-eight years, and then my wife goes off with a man twenty years younger than she is, and I’m left high and dry with this house on my hands. I hate it so much I can’t wait to get out of it. I don’t suppose you’d understand, being so young, but after twenty-eight years it’s as if the world’s been pulled from under your feet. Too many memories. They’re like poisonous snakes. Every one kills me. We were so happy, you’ve no idea. Happiness unlimited. I was an engineer at the pit, and retired last month. A lifetime of hard work and married bliss. Do you think a man can ask for more than that? He can’t. You’re too young to understand. It must be wonderful, being too young to understand. If only we could stay that way! I suppose I did stay that way, because when she said she was leaving a year ago I was so shocked I knew she couldn’t be joking. At least she waited till my son and daughter were grown up and out of the happy home. I’ll say that for her. Funnily enough, no sooner had she gone than I saw how right she’d been to go. The next thing was, I wondered why she’d waited so long. Number three thought came when I got angry at not having gone myself, before she did. Then during the long nights number four came when I cursed at the fact that we’d ever got married at all. Number five was when I wished I’d never met her. Last of all, number six, was when I sat here and wished I’d never been born. But I’m over that now, and just want to get out of this bloody house — and get the best possible price for it.’

I heard his life story while he made us a cup of tea, then put my question to him: ‘How would you like to get three hundred more for your house? I have a buyer who’ll pay that, if it takes his fancy. There’ll have to be a little consideration in it for me, though.’

He didn’t like this, threatened to go back to Pitch and Blender’s and tell them, but I told him I didn’t care if he got me the sack or not because I was all set to work elsewhere. I was just putting another two hundred in his pocket.

‘Three hundred, you said,’ he said.

‘I did, but a hundred of it will be mine.’

After a bit more arguing he agreed, and I went away after saying that a Mr Wainfleet would come to view the place tomorrow afternoon.

I was so pleased that I walked half the road back to Nottingham. Next day I met Wainfleet in the pub, and over a glass of Youngers and a cheese cob, which he paid for, I told him to go and see the house. If he liked it he could get it for four thousand three hundred.

‘And it’s worth every penny of it,’ I said. He was so excited he ordered a double brandy, and went on to tell me how he’d spent twenty years in the Army, and that he’d lived the last five years at Wollaton with his elder sister, whom he couldn’t stand. I sympathized with him, and hoped he’d be able to straighten out his life soon, by finding the place that his heart was set on wanting. He said he wouldn’t forget the favour I was doing, and that if he liked the house and got it, he’d be certain to remember my help. I told him I was only doing it out of friendship, and that he wasn’t to mention my part in it to anyone at the estate agent’s, because they didn’t like me doing personal services such as this one, and this in his gratitude he agreed to. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘they’ll make fun of me if they know I’m soft-hearted.’

I went to Claudine’s house. Her mother was at a meeting and her father had gone to the pub, so we made a play for each other even while still in the kitchen, moaning for it after the week-long separation caused by her blood-rags. The clouds were shifting and her breath smelled sweet. There was an instant rise in me, as if by some magic all the blood she’d lost had gone into my backbone. Not that I needed it, but it was plain that something special was on its way to happening, because into my intense kisses kept floating the vision of the country house I’d seen the day before, and in this picture there was a rainbow showing towards the Trent, the building itself under a shed of eternal sunshine, so that I was attacked by the sweet-rat of sentimentality, so strongly in fact that I felt like fainting, as if actually getting the flu that I had shammed the day before to Weekley. I felt insane, but this view of that ideal love-house reduced me to tenderness. Her back was to the gas stove, and in my new-found consideration I saw that this wasn’t comfortable, so steered her gently round the corner by the living-room door, and on up the stairs. She seemed frightened at where I wanted to go, but my soft kisses on every other step so surprised her that she daren’t say anything.

‘Where’s your room?’ I asked, my throat so parched I had to repeat it. But I opened another door showing her parents’ double bed flanked by wardrobe and dressing-table, and we went in there.

‘No,’ she pleaded. ‘No, dearest, not in here.’ As if she hadn’t spoken I went on kissing her till I could close the door behind us. I caught at a bedside light, which shone dimly over the counterpane. She felt terrible, I realized, having it on the place where her mother and father had always done it, and I was sorry afterwards that she hadn’t enjoyed it as much as usual. But to me it was the greatest fuck of my life so far, tooling sweet Claudine on her parents’ well-worn platform, as if I were getting the power and sweetness from their first ten years together. It seemed we were all in the room at the same time, wrapped and crawling among each other. Claudine’s tense and tearful face had its eyes shut tight as if to get the full benefit of my kisses and tongue, as well as every other part of me. When she reluctantly came under my fingers, more tears and groans let out of her, as if it were the greatest disaster in the world, that we’d done it here — and would go on coming upstairs to the same place for it whenever we got the chance. When I lost myself in her at last, my backbone seemed to shift out of place.

We lay stupefied, not knowing what to say. Downstairs, she gave me supper of bread and cheese, and tea, which was all I wanted. The air was light blue, and it was the greatest food in the world. She sat opposite, sipping her cup of tea, and I became uneasy at her gaze. ‘I don’t mind getting engaged to you,’ I said, ‘but if we did we wouldn’t be able to get married for a few years. We’re both too young.’

She smiled nicely, and that was all I wanted to see, except that everything I did seemed like a trick. ‘That’d be all right,’ she said. ‘We’d be sure of each other then, wouldn’t we?’

So we decided to be engaged, though agreed not to say anything for a few days to her parents, or to my mother who wouldn’t have been all that interested anyway, except to call me a bloody fool. I made up my mind that when we announced it I’d tell Claudine about my good amount of money saved. By then I hoped to have collected the hundred from Clegg as an extra commission for helping to sell his house.

For the rest of the evening I made myself agreeable to her mother and father, so that Mrs Forks thought I was a dedicated Communist and hoped I might one day join the Young Communist League. Mr Forks pumped me about my job at the estate agent’s, and I told him enough bullshit to make him suppose I’d become a big influence in the firm after I’d taken my examinations.

I missed the last bus home, but the two miles flew by me, and I didn’t remember passing the usual landmarks, as if I were walking blind but on a sure radar beam that couldn’t but lead me to wherever I wanted to go in the world.

The following afternoon I had to take a driving test. I was so affable to the inspector, yet careful, quick to know the rules, and at the same time go slow enough to keep cool and obey every dotted ‘i’ in the Highway Code, that I passed first time. This was considered a rare and famous feat in the office, and I was more stunned at it than anybody. They joked about me having slipped the tester a handful of pound notes, and we had a good laugh about it. I went to a pub with Peter Fen and Ron Butter, two of the older clerks, so that they could buy me a celebration drink, double brandies all round. We sat in the lounge of the Royal Children, smoking Whiffs I’d bought at the bar, and that I decided to smoke from then on instead of cigarettes. If I rationed myself to three a day it wouldn’t be more expensive, and was bound to make a good impression. In any case, I liked the taste of them, especially with brandy, so I went to the counter for three more doubles.

Ron drove me to Aspley in his Morris, because it was on his way to Nuthall, where he lived with his newborn wife in a bungalow they’d got on a mortgage. I said goodbye and see you in the sweatshop tomorrow, swaying slightly as I made for the gate to Claudine’s house.

She smelt it straight away, the ultimate sin of a man about to become engaged, who’d strayed from his occasional half-pint and sunk to the degradation of ‘shorts’. I took off my overcoat and sat down. ‘It’s not right,’ she said. ‘You reek of it. I never thought you’d start drinking whisky — at a time like this as well.’

‘Brandy,’ I said, lighting a Whiff.

‘Please don’t do it again,’ she said. ‘I love you, and I wouldn’t want to marry anybody who drank like that.’

‘I’m not drunk,’ I said, ‘honest, duck. Not on three doubles. I can tek a lot more than that.’

‘You seem drunk to me.’

‘That’s because you’re not me.’

‘I’m glad I’m not, then. It’s terrible, getting drunk like that.’ She didn’t look as nice as she had the night before, but I felt my love and sympathy too deeply for that to worry me. ‘I’ve passed my driving test. I promise not to get drunk again.’

She said all right at this, and actually smiled. ‘It’ll be for your good, as well as mine, for our good,’ was her conjugal way of putting it — ‘if you really stop drinking.’

I said that in any case I didn’t like the stuff, that it meant nothing to me, that the taste was rotten and burned my throat. All the same, she took my victorious driving test to be a great move in the war of ‘getting on’, saying I’d be so much more useful to the firm that I’d no doubt be given a responsible post in it soon.

Latching quickly on to her enthusiasm I went into a fantasy at how I might one day be able to save up for my own car, gloating to myself not only over the secret hoard of my savings but also about the money I was going to land from the sale of Cleggy’s house.

We sat on the settee and kissed, but after a few minutes her parents came in and the television began shattering the room while supper was being put on the table. The old man thought I was even more of a lad when I told him about the driving test and the brandies, and yet, in spite of their friendly umbrella, I had a feeling of not belonging in this happy family that seemed all ready, out of the goodness of their souls, to treat me so well — even as a son. I was not really uneasy, because at the same time I felt a fundamental need to be with them and, while eating and talking, to remember the previous night when I had all but stripped Claudine and made love to her on their rich and wonderful bed. I was dead set to wallow in mother, father and wife, which was good for every string-end of me. Even though I felt an impostor who might be shown up at any moment for what I was and slung into the blustery autumn rain, I drank the unsuspecting familiarity they gave out. The thought that the real me had got at last what I actually wanted made me smile rather than become fearful as the evening wore on. I could bear this, and much more, and I felt so shifty and happy that I never stopped asking myself how much they could take, a vague sensation that drifted over from time to time. After several such evenings Claudine and I decided that we’d tell of our engagement on her twentieth birthday, which was to come on the following week. Everything seemed made to hold us together, even such a flimsy and insignificant secret as this.

A client came into the office and wanted to see a house that we had on our books at Mapperley, whose rough details had been advertised in the previous day’s Post. Only Mr Weekley and I were in the office, and he had an appointment in half an hour, so when he tutted from his thin lips I offered to drive the parson-looking client to Mapperley. It appealed to Weekley: ‘Think you can drive my car?’

‘I passed my test, sir.’

‘True. You’ll never be as careful a driver as you are now, so close to your test.’ He gave me the keys: ‘Be doubly careful, then. It’s my car.’

The fact that I had a passenger in the back gave me confidence for threading a way through the town traffic. While still obeying the rules I branched off from Mansfield Road and went on with the uphill climb, to a district of villas and large houses I hadn’t much explored as a kid. Percy Parson asked: ‘Have you seen the house?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But it’s supposed to be in good order.’ It wasn’t, though neither was it in an advanced stage of senile decay like some of the places we handled. The owners had left, and I took him from room to room, making doors shut behind me as best I could, because Weekley had always advised: ‘When you’re in an empty house, shut the doors of the rooms you stand in, because the client has a better feeling and can imagine how he’d live in it with his furniture. But if the house is still furnished, and the rooms cluttered with somebody else’s rammel, leave the doors open, so that the client inspecting the house can see how big it would be when empty. Psychological tricks, Michael. Experience. Intuition. There’s more to this business than technical qualifications!’ I don’t know whether or not he was right, but I always took his advice, though whether this particular bit was ever crucial in making a person buy anything I shall never know.

I felt in such a good state of mind that I showed the man over the house as if I’d spent my childhood there, and even as if my parents had grown up in it, but that now I wanted to sell it, though only with the most piercing regret, because my sweetheart lived in the delectable countryside, and I was gallant and loving enough to go and live there when we married each other. The story would have been as full of holes as the spout end of a watering-can, so I let it die a silent, undignified death.

On the way back I didn’t speak, so that the client could make up his mind whether or not he wanted the house, my rhapsodies either to sink in or push him away from it for good. The fact was I had thoughts of my own, wondering when Wainfleet was going to come into the office and make his offer for Clegg’s house at Farnsfield. It should already have been done, and I rehearsed an appreciative smile for when I came face to face with that hundred pounds Clegg had promised. A momentary uncertainty flitted into me now and again, and I cursed as I nearly had my lamp taken off by a delivery van moving too quickly out from the kerb.

It was expected of me that as soon as I left work I should make my way up by the post office and meet Claudine outside the Elite cinema, the point she would reach after leaving her place at the same time. It was an easy and pleasant rendezvous to keep, for a while. We would kiss and, if the sky was dry, walk up Talbot Street, leaving the city centre behind and below. Sometimes we would go by the Ropewalk, stopping to look over the houses of the park and, on a clear day, gaze at the smoky valley of the Trent.

On one such evening, when the nights of autumn were drawing in, I felt the urge to get away from Claudine and go back home. This sensation of wanting to make a sudden escape confused me, because it was only part of my real desire at that moment, the other half of which was to go with Claudine and make love in her house. Our arms were fast and affectionately locked as we walked, and she was telling me some woe-tale of how the tyrant of a manageress at her office was threatening to make them work late as from next week if they didn’t get through their day’s quota by knocking-off time — or some such thing I was meant to drink in as if I were her twin sister. But I felt a definite twinge of panic drawing me towards my home, and when we reached Canning Circus I said: ‘Look, sweetheart, I’ll put you on a bus here. I’ve got to go.’

It was the simplest wish in the world, but she suspected a trick: ‘Where are you going?’

‘I’ve got to go home,’ I told her.

Something was frightening me, but it only seemed to her as if I was up to no good: ‘Why, what’s the matter, then?’

I was foolish enough to be honest: ‘I don’t know, duck. I’ve just got to get home’ — mad at myself for not knowing what was ratting at me.

‘You’re going to see somebody else, aren’t you? Aren’t you?’

I should have admitted that I was, in order to get away quickly, but I couldn’t lie at that moment, because I was too disturbed, and I hated being like that, as if I were letting myself down at not being able to lie. ‘Come home with me,’ I said, ‘then you’ll see. We’ll go on to your house after.’

But she wouldn’t do this. I’d asked her before to come to where I lived, but she always made up some excuse not to, the truth being that having spent most of her life on an open-housing estate she was afraid of the dark cobbled streets of Old Radford. I might just as well not have spoken.

‘All right,’ I said, ‘let’s go on to your place. I won’t go home.’ In any case, the fear had left me, and I no longer felt the great alarm of a few minutes before. But every tack and move was the wrong one, because she now thought I’d really tried some deception on her, and that I’d only backed down when she had opposed it so firmly. All the way to Aspley she worried at me and wouldn’t let go, trying to find out why I’d wanted to go off without her all of a sudden. The walk worked it out of her, yet it poisoned the whole evening so that neither of us enjoyed it. Even the kisses were tasteless, though at the last one outside her back door we both said how much we loved each other. She insisted on walking me to the bus stop, as proof of her love, but I knew it was because she wanted to make sure that I got on the right one, and didn’t go off to see some other girl, even at that late hour.

When I arrived home my mother was at the table, still wearing her coat. There was a look of desolation on her face I’d never seen before.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, sitting opposite without even bothering to take my mac off. She didn’t answer, so I just looked, and tried to guess. The anguished premonition of my stroll through the Ropewalk with Claudine came back to me, and I held her hand.

She drew it away: ‘My father’s dead.’

As soon as I knew what it was my heart and stomach became normal again. My sense of wanting to die on the spot vanished absolutely and did not come back. ‘Grandad?’ She said nothing. ‘What happened?’

‘Had a heart attack at half past five. The police came and told me when I got home from work.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Grandma’s. At Beeston. She’s breaking her heart. I nearly fainted when I saw him.’ She didn’t say anything for a few minutes. ‘They’ll be taking him to Callender’s funeral parlour tomorrow.’

I got up and put the kettle on: ‘If you’re going there in the morning I’ll go with you,’ I said, slashing three big spoons of tea into the pot.

‘All right. You might be a help to us.’

‘When are they burying him?’

‘On Thursday.’

I felt fine, wonderful, and saw Grandad stretched out in the parlour next morning before they carted him away. He was sixty-five (or had been) and I considered he’d had a good life to reach such an age. From being a big man he now seemed like a doll, as if I could lift him up and sit him on my knee, speak for him like a ventriloquist. But his sternness was having none of it. He lay like an age-old soldier in a horizontal tailor-made sentrybox, but ready to get up at the split-fart of an Army bugle, or the smell of the rag they used to wipe up spilt beer on the bar with. His eyes were closed, so that he couldn’t see where he was going, and though it looked as if some dreams might still be tail-ending behind his life, I knew he was surely as dead as I would ever see anyone and that God’s heaven was not for the likes of him or me. We were both of us cut out for finer stuff than God’s own heaven. I held his cold hand, hoping that I too would get the royal privilege of stepping into the be-all and end-all as soon as my heart stopped and the lights went out. I tweaked his ice-cold nose, kissed him on the stone forehead, and went out, to have Grandma throw her soft arms around me and wet my silk shirt through to the skin. She sobbed that I was just like him, and that no doubt I’d be as good as he ever was when I grew up. My mother was also weeping, but I thought: what the hell he lived to be old, and that should be enough for any man unless eaten up with the greatest greed of the world. They thought I had no heart and almost drove me away, till Grandma in all her soft wisdom said I was too young to let it tear me up, and that taking it like I did was the only way to show my grief.

And who knew that she wasn’t right? Because in this frame of mind I did various useful errands connected with Grandad’s sudden drop-out. There were payments to make and collect, various people to tell, as well as odd messages to carry to those who might come to the funeral, food to order for the party afterwards.

I went to the office with a black band around my arm to make me feel important, and Mr Weekley was sorry at my loss, impressed by such looks of grief that I could use when necessary, and told me I could stay off for a day after the funeral. I also got immediate sympathy from Claudine on telling her by phone at midday, and it blossomed to a full-blown envelopment of her body when I went to her house in the evening and found that her parents were out. It was marvellous, the grief people thought you felt, and how they were ready to shed your own tears for you, and the soft oily gratitude they gave you for giving them the opportunity of it.

Grandma wanted her dead husband to have a fair funeral, and Mother and I did our best to see that her wish was satisfied. There were three car-loads of friends and family, and I sat among them with my black suit on, seeing the occasional person by the roadside take off his hat as we went by. Standing in the rain by the open grave, and staring the box into the bottom of it, I had the mad desire, which I was hardly able to resist, to jump down and drag my mother and grandmother with me so that all three of us got buried at the same time.

I walked back to the gate and the waiting cars, and didn’t care whether the world ended or not. This had nothing to do with my grandfather having died. It was almost as if I’d started something by suddenly beginning to live, but wasn’t interested any more in going on to finish it.

I’d asked Claudine to come to the funeral, but she said she ‘didn’t like to’ because she wasn’t yet ready to meet my mother. The truth was that she didn’t want to be connected to someone who had died, and nobody could blame her for this, because there had been moments when I hadn’t been too easy about it either. Yet I wanted her to come, because it was the first opportunity in our courting that I’d been able to offer on my side something to balance the weight of her family that she had given to me from hers. It would in some way have equalized the intimacy of life between us, but she was too embarrassed to come, and I thought: so what? Why should she? Maybe she won’t even go to her own grandparents’ funeral, when the time comes. If I had a father of my own, I thought, instead of being the undoubted bastard that I am, I wouldn’t have bothered to take so much part in it as I had.

I got really drunk that night, so that I didn’t even have the stiffening left to get myself to Claudine’s place as I’d promised. When I saw her the next day I said I’d been too blacked out with fond memories of my dear grandad to leave the house. I’d hugged my bed, I told her ‘in a paroxysm of grief’. She really understood that, and forgave me, giving me such comfort on the settee that I said I hoped I’d be able to do the same for her some day, if ever she needed it, though I hoped she wouldn’t.

It took a long time to push house deals through, and I assumed that Wainfleet was having a surveyor go over the Clegg mansion before he made his offer. Nevertheless, I was beginning to wonder why I hadn’t heard from either of them, and I knew that no news had come in at the office. Nothing would go wrong as far as I could see, and I stayed optimistic because before going out to work that morning (I hadn’t yet steeled myself to calling it ‘business’ as they did in West Bridgford) I read my horoscope in Mam’s paper which said: ‘A day to remember. Financially good. Romantically sound. Don’t rush it. Promotion in the air. Heady progress. Good for you.’

I went blithely to work and, as was only to be expected when I got there bright and punctual, Mr Weekley called out for me: ‘Shut the door,’ he said.

He didn’t look good, and I wondered whether it wasn’t his turn now to go down with some half-imaginary flu. He opened a folder in front of him: ‘Cullen, you’ve been up to some monkey business, and it’s the most clumsy piece of work I’ve ever come across in this line. If it had been a bit more subtle and underhand I might have been tempted to keep you on. As it is, you disgrace me. A bloody baby could have done better. Let me put you in the picture. Your Mr Wainfleet did offer Clegg a higher price for his house — four thousand three hundred instead of four thousand that Clegg originally wanted. I’m putting you wise so that you’ll never make the same mistake again, behind the back of the person you might work for at your next job. Well, so far so good, but in comes the first chap who set out the asking price, and offers four thousand four hundred. Then Clegg plays him off in a dutch auction, and Wainfleet, red in the face, ups it to four thousand five hundred. Do you see what you started? You bloody jackanapes!’

I was boiling too: ‘That’s all right by you,’ I cried, ‘as far as commission’s concerned, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes. But let me tell you the last of it. Then comes the bright young chap again, and jacks it up to four thousand six hundred. There it stops, and yesterday while you were away getting those ordnance-survey plans, enter Wainfleet absolutely frothing at the mouth, and accusing me of using innocent young you as a pawn to start a dutch auction, and positively screaming that he was going to make a complaint to the Society. Well, of course, I can take care of that. In any case that vile vendor Clegg wasn’t entirely innocent when he saw which way the wind was blowing. But you’ve got to go, young Cullen. You can take your briefcase and umbrella, and remember next time to think before trying to push something so intricate. Oh, yes, I know, you nearly brought it off, but don’t forget: there’s always some swine a bit greedier than you are.’

‘I didn’t expect anything from Clegg,’ I said. ‘I was only trying to do the firm a favour so that you’d think highly of me and I could get on a bit. Anyway, they were both bidding for the house on the open market. What’s wrong with that? It was nothing to do with me.’

‘Don’t lie, Michael. You make it hard for me, mate. I’ve got the particulars of the house here that you typed for Wainfleet, with your fancy price on it. Oh, all right, there’s more to you than the others working here, but I can’t keep you on. However, I’ll give you a fair reference so that you might get a job somewhere else. But wherever it is, try not to pull such monkey business again. It’ll get you a bad name.’

I couldn’t be sure of a wink under his glasses, but wanted to thump his putty cheeks and grey moustache so as to stop the trembling in both my legs — except that I didn’t want to end up in a cell at the Guildhall at that particular moment.

I took my fortnight’s pay and insurance money, and said goodbye with regret to Miss Bolsover. ‘It’s a shame you got into trouble,’ she said, ‘but don’t worry.’

I smiled. ‘Glad to get away, really. I’ve been thinking of moving on to London’ — another useless lie, for she was bound to see me around town sooner or later and wonder why I hadn’t had the guts to go. She was a proud, grey-haired woman, well into her thirties, who I often fancied knuckling into because there seemed no hope of it.

There was only one person I wanted to see at that moment, and it was still early enough in the day to go out and find him. In fact a few hours in the country would do me good after the mental strain of getting the sack. I’d wheedled from Miss Bolsover the information that the bright young man had sent in his deposit cheque on Clegg’s house for four hundred and sixty pounds, so I’d be due for at least a hundred pounds when the contract was signed, though I wondered now whether Clegg the egg would keep to it.

The fields and woods weren’t half so pleasant, for a sharp wind was shaking itself out from Lincolnshire, and even a thick tweed overcoat didn’t stop it finding my ribs. Walking through it from the bus stop, the full shock of getting my cards hit me, and I wondered whether in this life I was only destined to work in a factory where I could get into nothing more troublesome than walking out now and again with whatever was produced there bulging from my pockets. My natural move should have been to retreat, to get back and let my heart curl up in safety where no blow-through mistakes could get at it. But natural moves were already alien to me, and I was set on some course even more natural than my natural desires because I didn’t think one bit about what I was going to do.

Clegg asked me into a room just inside the door, where he had a sort of office or study. He hadn’t shaved for a few days and the stubble, like his hair, was grey. I sat down, when he asked me to, in an armchair. On the wall behind was a framed railway map of England. I was left alone while Arthur Clegg went hospitably into the kitchen to make some tea. I don’t know what he thought I’d come for, because he asked nothing and said nothing, imagining perhaps in the quirky darkness of his mind that I just happened to be passing and had called in. But his grey shallow eyes showed him to be far more alive to the world than I was, and while he was busy with his teapot and old cups he’d left a record on his pick-up, playing part of what I knew to be Handel’s Messiah. I supposed he spun this sort of music all day to stop himself going sideways up the wall till he got the hell out of his gloomy house. I wondered why I had come, now that I was here, and the voice was telling me that the trumpet shall sound, while I didn’t know how to get to the point because I knew he knew he didn’t have to give me a blue penny for the favour I’d done him.

He asked how I was getting on, and I saw that the only thing I could do was be dead honest and tell him I’d just been booted out of my job on his behalf. He smiled at this: ‘That’s the way of the world. What did you expect?’

I wasn’t ready to let things go as easily, and said I was glad to hear he’d got four thousand six hundred for his house: ‘That was due only to me, and you shouldn’t forget it.’

‘Oh, I won’t, my lad,’ he said, putting half a biscuit between his false teeth. ‘Not in a hurry, anyway.’

‘It’ll take me a good while to get another job,’ I said, ‘and I’ll need a bit to tide me over. A hundred and fifty would see me right.’

‘You’ve upped your price?’ he grinned.

I was beginning to dislike the way he too obviously played with me, and wished I’d brought a blunt instrument to threaten him with — though I knew that as a wicked thought, because it went out of my mind very quickly, especially when he said: ‘There’s many a slip between the first offer being made and the final payment falling into my bank. He can still back out, as you know. He’s sending a surveyor over tomorrow, and if his report’s no good, I expect the deal will be off, or he’ll want a lower price. But if it all goes through as planned, I’ll give you a hundred. That’s what you said, wasn’t it?’

‘It’s not much of a share.’

He poured more tea, looked me straight in the eye: ‘It’s all you’re going to get. It’s more than you deserve, twenty per cent, in any case, but I’ll stick to our agreement. A pity you lost your job over it, though. What’s a bright young lad like you going to do now?’

‘I’m going to London.’

‘That’s even brighter of you. This town would soon be too hot to hold you, I suppose.’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Nobody said you had. But you’ll like London, if I know you. You have the face to like it — though God knows, you must be careful.’ He waffled on like this for another half-hour, while I sat at my ease and listened to him tell about museums and famous places he thought I should see down there.

When I left he shook my hand, held it and squeezed it, and his fingers were ice-cold so that I felt sorry for him, though I didn’t know why. After all, he had no troubles any more, having got rid of his wife and kids, and being about to sell his house for a good fat price. He’d have nothing then, and he’d be free. Maybe this was why I had that faint shred of sorrow for him.

I got back in time to meet Claudine by the cinema. She was glad to see me, smiled as I took her hand and kissed it like an Italian count. ‘You’re in a good mood,’ she said, ‘have you got a raise, or been promoted?’

‘Better than that. I’ve got the sack. I feel wonderful.’

She stopped so suddenly in the middle of the pavement that a couple of postmen going at a good pace behind bumped into us and almost knocked me flying. It was as if I’d buried the blunt end of a claw-hammer in her back: ‘What for?’

‘A good reason. A bloody good reason.’

Her stony anger flashed itself full into me. ‘But why?’

I had to tell her something, or just walk away, and I couldn’t do that. The real reason I’d got the push now seemed petty and stupid, and my pride buckled under it: ‘I was in the office this morning’ — persuading her to walk along so that it would be easier to talk — ‘when Weekley asked me to type a sheet of information about a house. Then I had to cyclostyle it, but the machine was no good and it left off the bottom part. When he saw it he called me an idle bastard, and I said that if there was an idle bastard in this office then he was that idle bastard, the idle bastard. At which he calls me a thieving bastard, an illiterate no-good bastard from Radford, so I punch him one, and knock his glasses flying. Everybody in the office had to hold me down, otherwise I’d have pummelled him into putty. He sent somebody for a copper, but they couldn’t find one near, so Weekley then said I wasn’t worth taking to court because I’d go there soon enough on my own, being already a criminal who could only go from bad to worse. All he wanted was to see the back of me, which he did, because I got out as fast as I could. I’ll never go near the place again. I hate it.’

I piled it on so high it nearly toppled over. ‘Oh,’ she cried. ‘Oh, how awful.’ We walked in silence while the full blood of it sank into her, and me, getting more horrible all the time. ‘What have you been doing all day?’ she asked.

‘Sitting in coffee bars,’ I said gruffly. ‘What else could I do after that little set-to?’

‘You ought to have been looking for another job. You might have had one by now.’

‘I hadn’t got the heart to.’

‘Why do you do it? Oh, Michael, why did you do it?’ she cried with such anguish that a man passing by laughed at the thought of what I’d done to her, the dirty bastard. It sounded as if I’d just killed her mother, or something. ‘Well,’ she said, when I didn’t answer, ‘we can’t announce our engagement till you get another good job, and even then, I don’t know.’

‘Do you love me?’ I asked, ‘or don’t you? Just tell me, for God’s sake, so that I’ll know where I stand.’

My sarcasm was mixed with a dash of bile, but she took me dead seriously: ‘I don’t know. I’m all mixed up. Oh, why did you do it?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ I said, ‘and I mean it: I couldn’t stand working in that office with such a gang of four-eyed ponces for the next four hundred years, getting deader and deader and deader and deader, selling rotten houses to poor drudges who are even worse than dead but who just wanted a rose-painted kennel to die in, or a converted matchbox rabbit-hutch to bring their snotty-nosed kids up in. I’ve had my short sharp dose and that’s enough to last me all my life. In fact I might die next year and I’d weep scalding tears if I’d wasted so much time saying yes-sir and no-sir to that lot of bleeders. I’d rather work in the blackest factory on earth than go through that again. I might be a fool and a thief but I’ve not yet been brainwashed enough to crawl into that sort of death with a lettuce up my arse.’

‘Stop it!’ she screamed. ‘Don’t swear. Go away. I don’t want to see you. Don’t follow me.’ I stood, watching her get on to a bus that, conveniently for both of us, drew into its stop at that moment. It trundled towards Canning Circus, and for ten minutes I didn’t move but leaned against the wall of the cathedral wondering what I’d done, why I had made Claudine so desperate and unhappy that she had to walk out on me. It was the finish, I knew, because knowing her heart so well, I could see that I’d split the ground under her feet, and that the absolutely unforgivable had been done and said.

I didn’t think the oak and the ash and the bonny rowan tree was the best that the earth had to offer. A man of all colours is a man of the night as well as of the day, and because I acted merely, and hardly thought at all, I eventually began to see that the best the earth could give me was the wherewithal to support myself in bread and books without actually earning it. The nearer I got to my twenty-first birthday the firmer this belief took hold. Fortunately I had no moral teachers except myself. My mother didn’t care, as long as I was clothed and fed. By this I don’t mean to imply that we didn’t love each other and wouldn’t have died for each other. We certainly wouldn’t. The fact was, I suppose, that I could never have found a moral teacher with whom to agree, certainly not in any of the people I knew both inside and outside the family. In this sense, a lot was put on to my shoulders, namely the task of finding my own moral way in a world where no adults were available to guide me. Of course, there must have been many who would have taken me on, but I’m sure that their qualifications for doing so would have been down below zero. Being young, I was left alone by moral hypocrites and bullies who’d only want to deprave or colonize me. A man of many colours can go a long way, as long as he keeps out of their way.

I walked home after leaving Claudine, feeling as if I’d been cursed, holding a weight of tons on my back. Mother was smoking a fag and reading the evening paper: ‘You look as if you’ve lost your wages. What’s up?’

‘I got the sack.’

‘That’s not the end of the world.’

‘My girlfriend packed me in.’

‘Because you got the sack? She’s not much of a friend. You’re well rid of her. There’s some ham in the larder. Get a bit of it into your belly.’

I slumped down: ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Come on, you bleddy fool. Get that light back in your eyes. It’s down to twenty-five watts and it was a hundred yesterday.’ She poured my tea, put out the bread and ham, with some pickles. ‘Good God!’ she said, ‘you’re crying! I never thought I’d live to see it. Come on, love. Don’t bother about her.’

I was only nearly crying, if such a thing can be said. Tears were about to break through, and this was what she saw. After eating I went to bed, and cried there alone, and when I went to sleep I felt much better.

Claudine lost no time in getting back into the affections of Alfie Bottesford, if ever she had been out of them during the time we had courted together. I actually saw them a week later, walking through town and hanging on each other as if they were frightened of some black angel ripping them apart. Claudine turned her eyes at the offending sight of me, but Alfie gave a wink as I went by, amused at me not being able to stop and talk to them because they were determined that I shouldn’t be able to. But I was glad nevertheless of this chance glimpse, because up to then I’d been thinking that perhaps I’d call on Claudine to see if I couldn’t get us going again. Now I realized that, though seeing her with Alfie might give me more chance of success than if she’d stayed at home brooding alone and lonely over me, I was not prepared to risk it, because I didn’t really want to become part of her cakewalk again — which might this time settle in for life. I began to recover from her, and enjoy my new phase of leisure.

I didn’t try for a new job. Cutting myself to half-pay, I could last in idleness for a month. I bought a newspaper every morning, walked up and over the hill into the bowl of town. I found it impossible to lie long in bed. Idleness did not extend as far as to rot my spine. When Mother went out at half past seven I felt the emptiness of the house getting louder and louder in my blood, so in ten minutes I was dressed and down before the pot of tea had got cold. In scarf and overcoat I called at coffee bars and bookshops, looking at passing faces or in windows. A city is fascinating if you don’t have to work in it, not the same place any more, but richer, and full of things you’d never noticed.

I went into the record shop on Clumber Street as if to buy discs, but played classical pops for an hour, then said I wasn’t satisfied with the reproduction and went to spread out the next couple of hours in the reference library, before a cheese-cob and cup-of-tea lunch in Lyons. In the reading-room I went through the papers, but the news never really interested me, though I read it for a laugh and to while away time on such stuff as held everybody in thrall while on the bus to work or during a ruminative five-minute crap after breakfast. I rejected news, and even rejected the interest of it. I stopped buying magazines or newspapers, thinking the only news to be what was happening in myself, and this only came out in headlines flashing now and again across my brain, such as:

MICHAEL CULLEN GETS THE SACK. CULLEN THROWN OVER BY GIRLFRIEND. BASTARD’S GRANDAD KICKS THE BUCKET.

I usually went up and down the columns wanting men for work. Indisputable proof that I was needed stared me in the face till I went nearly blind. Before he lost his sight, I said to myself, he remembered that, now and again, for a few seconds, he would see a large patch of grey when he looked into the light. The Situations Vacant showed me the way people still lived, and the monkey’s claw shot out at me to join them, but I held back the belly-laughs as I skimmed my eyeballs from one dead job to another, from van driver’s mate to builders’ labourer, loader, packer, welder, dishwasher, boilermaker, shop helper, bartender, and factory hand, a long sad hymn to real life spinning into me till I stopped laughing for fear I’d get the jaundice, and so switched to the crossword.

After three weeks I went to see how Clegg had got on with selling his house. Hedges were heavy and ugly with frost, and under a clear sky the fields rolled away white and sparkling like a sheet thrown off by a dead man on his way up to heaven. It looked grim and I wanted none of it, the countryside seeming alien to me in winter. I needed summer lushness with hot days and flowers, and I was reminded of how warm factories could be at such a time.

No one answered the bell so I walked to the back and saw Clegg taking wood logs from the shed and stacking them by the kitchen door. ‘I was expecting you,’ he said, straightening himself and coming towards me. I asked if he wanted any help, feeling suddenly bored with inactivity at the sight of him having a useful job.

He laughed: ‘I can manage. I spin this work out, because what can I do when it’s finished? I’ve still got plenty of packing to do, though. The sale’s over. The survey was good, and the searches were made by the other man’s solicitor. It was more of a rush than I expected. The whole price is paid already. Bit of a shock now I’ve actually got to clear out.’

‘Better than standing still.’

‘Aye,’ he answered. ‘I suppose it is.’

Remembering my first idyllic sight of his picture-box house, a great pang came back for Claudine, of the stupid daydream I’d had of us both living in this place. Close after it was the thought that thank God it was going to be sold, and that after this visit I need never see it again. I was frightened and put off by the surrounding frost.

Clegg asked me inside. He seemed older than when I’d first seen him, as if selling his house had been a big mistake that was too late to back out of now. His skin was lank and sallow, his eyes empty of all but an impression of water as if he were about to be ill, or as if the winter was threatening to do for him. A limb of the house had propped up his backbone, but still he smiled on telling me he’d be glad to get out of it. Perhaps he’d worked too hard at filling cases and stacking books in boxes when he should have left it all to the removal men. I offered to help him shift any heavy stuff, saying it not as if he weren’t strong enough to do it on his own, but in a matey way so that he could get it done sooner. ‘Perhaps you could,’ he said, ‘if you’ve no other work.’

So I stayed until after dark, clearing huge basket-cases from the attic. Because I was working so effectively he realized there was more to do than he had thought, so asked me to stay the night and get an early start next day. ‘I don’t mind,’ I said, ready for any work as long as I got something to eat. Food wasn’t important to me if I ate regularly. It needn’t be a lot, but if it didn’t come on time it put me into a very bad mood indeed.

Old Clegg took my hand and held it: ‘Listen, Michael, whenever somebody asks you whether you want to do something, never answer by saying that you don’t mind, because it’s no answer at all. If you want to do something in the, world, always come out with a straight yes or no, and then you’ll be of great value to your fellow men, but also of even greater value to yourself.’

What could I say to such a sermon except nod my head? We went into the kitchen, which was warm because of an Aga cooker burning nicely — though the light was a bit dim. Clegg took out a plate of liver from the fridge, threw it into a pan of burning lard. With a tin of beans and a few slices of Miracle Bread, it made a good supper between us. He was disappointed that I didn’t play chess, so we stayed at the table with a game of draughts. But it was too easy for him, and he was bored after an hour of it. When neither of us spoke it was so quiet I thought I was going off my head. So this is what it’s like in the country, I said to myself.

Next morning I humped trunks and boxes from the attic and lined them up in the hall. It was a hard grind, which went on till after dusk, but I enjoyed it because I wasn’t working for a boss. Clegg gave me the general idea, and I just got on with it. There was a bureau I had to bring down, and in one of the drawers were at least a dozen old-fashioned pocket watches. I looked at them, able to see that the numbering in Roman style was beautifully and thinly marked on their white clock faces. Maybe they were prizes or presents he’d been given in his life. One was a large heavy gold piece, complete with its own chain, and a cover that went over the face to protect it, fastening with a firm-sounding click.

To see whether its tick was healthy I wound up the top knob, and in my stupidity didn’t give it a few twists but went on till I could turn no more without breaking it. I stood by the open drawer, gazing at the second hand strutting around in its small circle, till I heard the tread of Clegg on his way up. So I put it back and carried on dragging the bureau towards the door. When he went down I wrapped the watch in my handkerchief and put it in my pocket. He’d most likely never think of it again, and it was too good a piece of work to moulder away in that drawer for ever. The only thing was the powerful tick-tock, that I had no way of throttling short of snapping the main spring. Its noise, even from the far-off muffle of my handkerchief, seemed spiked into my veins, and my only hope was that Clegg was too deaf or absent-minded to notice, or that I could make enough noise when near him to drown it.

‘I think we’ve just about broken the back of it,’ he said, when we sat in the kitchen with tea, and cup-cakes I’d shopped in the village for.

‘I’ll stay here again tonight,’ I said, ‘if you think it’s necessary. Nobody misses me in Nottingham.’

‘I suppose you wish you’d never bumped, into me, losing your job, and then your girlfriend.’

‘What does it matter?’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s all for the good. I didn’t say that at the actual time but I always think so before a thing happens and after it happens. That’s the way I am. I was born like that.’

‘It’s lucky you were. It never was any use crying over spilt milk.’

‘You can say that again.’ I said, pouring myself another dose of strong tea. ‘I wasn’t glad at losing my job just because I don’t like work.’

‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘I’ll make it right with you before you go. That’s a watch I can hear, ain’t it?’

I held up my hand: ‘This bobbin-ticker makes more noise than Big Ben. It was the cheapest I could find. I’m glad I got it though. Came out of my first week’s wages.’

‘It does make a row.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it was embarrassing when I sat with my girl on the back seat at the pictures. She used to think I couldn’t wait to get her outside in the fields. Put her off a bit, this bloody timebomb.’

He laughed: ‘It is that all right. Let’s get back to it, shall we?’

I wondered what he meant by making it right with me. During our short acquaintance we’d become as close as you could get without being related, or so it seemed to me. Due to my short-sighted power game, I’d done him a favour by getting an inflated price for his house, and all that remained was to see whether he appreciated it or not. If he didn’t, at least I had the watch, though I would have regarded it as a shabby substitute for the golden handshake I’d grown day by day to expect.

I used the bathroom for a wash, and put on my coat. Clegg met me in the hall, and handed me an envelope. ‘Take this, for your trouble. I always repay a kindness, and hope you’ll do the same throughout your life, even when you do have bad luck, which I don’t suppose you will, not very often, at any rate. But don’t get into trouble that’s all I can say. If you help people as much as you’ve helped me you should get on all right. In that envelope you’ll find a note with my address in Leicester on it, so if ever you get that way, come and see me.’

‘I’ll be sure to. I was glad to do a bit of work for you.’ After handshakes and a hug on both sides I went quickly along the lane to get a bus, feeling a right bastard with Clegg’s best watch beating time to my heart in the arse-pocket of my trousers. On the top deck I furtively opened the envelope and counted a hundred and fifty pounds in five-pound notes. I could have jumped out of the window for joy, but instead screwed up the paper with his best wishes and address on it, and let that go into the blackness instead. All I can do, when I think back on it, is wonder at the irresponsibility of youth, while knowing for certain that at the actual time I thought about nothing at all.

In the isolation of my bedroom I took out my savings and totted up the total wealth, which came to the fat fantastic sum of two hundred and sixty pounds. It seemed impossible that I owned such money, and as if in doubt I held all of Clegg’s five-pound notes up to the light to see if the watermark and steel strip were in them. I stowed it back under my mattress, and couldn’t sleep. The moon glowed, so I drew the curtains, and I trembled, all of a sweat, afraid to sleep in case some robbing bastard should shin up the drainpipe, get through the window, flatten me with a bludgeon, and make off with my fortune. If anyone in an area like ours came to know of it, that would have been my fate. I tossed and screwed my face into the pillow, pressing my eyes shut tight in order to blot my heart into sleep.

Nobody did know of it, except me. The only safe way was to spend it, so next morning I put on my best suit and went to a garage that sold second-hand cars. The manager showed me a Ford Popular only four years old (or so he said) for a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and after a good try-out around the city, then over the Trent as far as Ruddington, I paid spot cash for it. With tax, insurance, and a tank of petrol I still had more than a hundred quid to my name.

I piloted the car home with a Whiff between my lips, windows wide open even though it was like Siberia. A bus followed me down Ilkeston Road, and I was afraid to go too slow in case it kept right on and flattened me. Fortunately, the traffic lights stopped us both, but I was still fluttering nervously when I pulled up at the kerb outside the house. I ran in for a tin of polish and a rag because there was a touch of rust on the front bumper, and worked till every bit of chrome reflected my happy and grinning face.

When Mother came in that night she wanted to know: ‘Whose is that car outside?’

‘Mine.’

‘Don’t be bloody silly,’ she said. ‘I asked you a civilized question: whose is it? If you don’t know, say so.’

‘It’s mine,’ I told her. ‘I bought it this morning’ — explaining how I’d got the money from Clegg.

‘You are a dark horse,’ she said. ‘Has it got lights?’ I told her it had, and she asked me to take her out in it. We drove to Grandma’s at Beeston. There was a great wind going, and at one place along University Boulevard I felt it bumping the car side-on, as if with a bit more strength it would push us over. Mother enjoyed the ride so much she was singing all the way.

I bought some drink at a beer-off, and we supped a few pints in Grandma’s warm kitchen. ‘Be careful’, my mother said. ‘Don’t put too much back.’

‘I can only drive well if I’m drunk. Otherwise I’m frightened to death.’

‘I’ll do the boozing,’ Grandma said. ‘And you do the driving. That’s fair, ain’t it?’ We laughed and stewed over it, and after the booze came tea and sandwiches as part of Grandma’s generous service.

Halfway through this we heard a rending of rotten wood, the sound of a thousand twigs biting themselves in half, followed by a dull impacted crunch outside the house. Grandma screamed that hell was coming down on us. My heart almost burst, and I thought a bomb had fallen or a gasometer had gone up. A vision of my crushed and mangled car flipped over my eyes, and I charged like a madman for the scullery door, from which side most of the noise had come.

People were shouting, cars stopping, lights flashing. I felt the wind licking my face with its cold tongue. I couldn’t get out for a wall of dry and tangled branches held me back. I was frantic, ripped and clawed my way to the garden where the greater part of the trunk had fallen. Much of the tree had smashed on to the wall, spliced halfway down it.

Mother was by my side. ‘I hope no one was walking along the pavement. If they were, they’ve had it.’

‘Sod them,’ I cried, almost in tears. ‘What about my car?’ We pulled at the gate, but due to the buckling of the wall it wouldn’t open. Grandma was laughing behind us. ‘You sound as if you’re off your head,’ I shouted.

‘Your grandad’s tree’s gone down at last!’ she said, and went back to laughing so that I could have killed even her when I thought about my car.

It was buried under the rammel of branches. I held on to the wall to stop the stars going round. People were pulling at brittle wood and taking it back to their houses for kindling. I scrabbled like a maniac to get to the car, and a man said: ‘Look at that greedy sod. Some folks aren’t satisfied till they get the lot.’

‘’Appen it’s his car,’ another voice chipped in.

‘Serves him right, then. Good job it struck the rich and not the poor.’ But I reached it, and in no time the top was freed. The main weight of the tree had been taken by the wall, and far from the car being a write-off, it now seemed that apart from a couple of bad dints in the roof only one of the front lamps was smashed. Trying to hold back my rage so that all the nosy-parkers shouldn’t have a good show for nothing, I got inside and saw that some split branches had punctured two jagged holes in the roof, as if God had fired two anti-tank shells for spite, vertically down from his stony heaven. I could have cried my heart out at such a disaster on the first day of my owning it, but later on, totting back a half-bottle of Grandma’s Irish whiskey (that I’ll swear blind she brewed herself) I didn’t mind joining in the general laugh though only because I was drunk.

Next morning I got to work, and wiped up the water that had dripped inside during the night. I hammered the ragged lips of the holes as closed as they could get, then put a crisscross work of stickypaper strips inside and out, and painted them from a tin of enamel I bought at a bucket shop. That made it as watertight as it would ever be again, and with the lamps fixed, the car was once more roadworthy.

I covered hundreds of miles in the next few days, till I was as good a driver as the rest of them, if not better, judging by the number of near-misses I had due to other people’s carelessness. I went past Cleggy’s house one day and saw a couple of removal vans outside, but didn’t go in to say hello in case he’d missed the pocket-watch, which I now wore proudly from my jacket lapel. I thought that perhaps I’d look him up one day in Leicester (I could get his address from the library) and give it back to him. This good intention agreeably stifled whatever guilt I felt, and even made me feel happy for the next half-mile. After the accident of the tree my car didn’t look as spick and span as it had the morning I bought it, but my affection for it had grown accordingly. Such a vegetable baptism was all it would ever suffer, and I hoped that from now on whoever might be in heaven would look after us. I felt comfortable in it, safe, enclosed, as if it were more of a home than my own room. If I curled up in the back I could even sleep, and in fact often dozed there, parked by some narrow lane of north Notts when I was fagged out from the mental effort of steering it along. I had food in the car, a blanket, fags, tools, maps, and a Thermos filled with tea before setting out. I felt like a gipsy, but always went back home at night, as if I were still tied at the ankle by an invisible rope.

Driving through town at just gone five one afternoon I saw Miss Bolsover walking towards her bus stop. ‘Gwen,’ I called, using her first name now that we didn’t work together. She heard me, I’m sure, but kept her head up and went right on, her broad arse shaking inside her loose grey coat. A van was hooting for me to get a move on, and she thought this was me also signalling her. So I flicked on my indicators as if I was going into the kerb to stop, but still crawled along it slowly, turned my window to the bottom and called: ‘Miss Bolsover!’

She came over with a smile: ‘Hello, Michael!’

‘I’ll drive you home,’ I said. ‘Get in.’ The car sagged, not that she weighed more than most, but it seemed that the springs weren’t in the best condition. Gwen Bolsover was what might be called a well-built woman of more than thirty, with touching grey hair above her delicate pink ears. Her pear-shaped face was always full of concern for others, and as far as I understood from office gossip she had gone through a succession of boyfriends, all of whom were said to have let her down. Why they had, nobody knew, but that was her claim, and such was the honesty of her face when she said it that no one dreamed of disbelieving her. This fact certainly made men go for her like flies when they heard of it.

Perfume filled the car, and I had to brace myself so as not to swoon under it because traffic was heavy, and I couldn’t swear while she was in the car in case such words were misunderstood. I had hoped, in my over-optimistic way, that Claudine would be the first to waft perfume and smear lipstick over the upholstery. I’d intended calling on her when the month was up to see if we couldn’t get back to our senses. And now Miss Bolsover had beaten her to it, a free gift suddenly out of nowhere, when she hadn’t been in my mind for weeks. I knew already that you never got what you expected — or even what you deliberately didn’t expect in the hope that you’d get it. That’s why I lived on the minimum of hope and never expected anything. I certainly did as well as anybody else out of this system, and maybe, in some ways, a whole lot better.

Miss Bolsover asked where I’d got the car, and I told her I’d bought it out of my savings, that I’d been putting money by for exactly this since I was fifteen. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I do admire such steadiness of purpose in a man. And you’re still so young. I wonder what sort of a person you’ll be in ten years’ time? Or in twenty years?’ She lived at Wollaton, and we were already caught in the rush hour to get around Canning Circus. ‘How well you drive,’ she said. ‘It was good of Mr Weekley to give you those driving lessons.’

‘I’m not that young,’ I objected, ‘Miss Bolsover. In fact I feel a lot more than twenty-one at times, I can tell you.’ In one sharp turn she fell against me, soft arms and apologies, then asked me where I was working now, and I told her I was fixed up at Steke and Scull’s, the biggest agents in the city, but that for the moment I was at their Loughborough branch. This seemed like a rise indeed, and she congratulated me on it ‘How wonderful for you.’

‘It is,’ I said, driving with one hand and taking out a Whiff with the other. I offered her one: ‘Smoke these?’

Her laugh was loud, head thrown back: ‘Oh goodness, no. Not yet, anyway.’

I lit up: ‘You know, Weekley gave me the sack, but it was all due to a misunderstanding. I tried to do the firm a favour, and he thought I was, going it for myself.’

‘All I know,’ she said, ‘is that he thought you had done something that wasn’t ethical.’

‘Whatever that means,’ I said. ‘Maybe he just wanted an excuse to get rid of me.’

‘I don’t think so, Michael. He always spoke highly of you.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘he should have realized I was young enough to make mistakes, and not thrown me out like that.’

‘It was a pity,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realize you felt so bad about it.’

‘I did, and do.’ The fact was that if I’d stayed I could have made a lot more money doing exactly what I’d done with Clegg, but I’d have used my brains and not got found out so easily. To be able to do it, however, one had to work for an estate agent as a cover, and so as to get the necessary information. ‘It was a great shock for me to get thrown out, Miss Bolsover,’ I went on, passing Radford station. ‘Mostly, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t admit it, because I hated losing contact with you. It was the greatest treat in my life, waking up every morning and knowing that when I got to the office I’d be able to see you. Don’t ask me why I’m telling you this. It’s all too late now.’ I looked straight ahead at the road: ‘The reason I tried so hard to bring off that little bit of business for the firm was because I might be given more responsibility, and then you’d perhaps have thought a little better of me, because it seemed that in spite of my feelings you hardly knew I existed.’ The words just tumbled out, without me knowing that they would. I was so controlled by them that I was slightly scared, but took a split-second goz at Miss Bolsover to see if there was any effect.

She looked in front, nose and mouth set to some thought that I wasn’t party to, as if engrossed by other things entirely. But she was blushing faintly, so I couldn’t be sure of this. In order to make it worse for her I said I was sorry, that I shouldn’t have spoken, but that my heart was so full I hadn’t had much say in the matter.

‘You’re a strange boy, Michael.’

‘Normal,’ I answered. ‘I can’t imagine anyone not liking you. But it’s more than that with me.’

I said nothing else because no words came. She gave directions to reach her house, a small bungalow off a by-road near Wollaton. I let her get out by herself, and she stood with the door open. Play at being good-mannered too early on and you’ll never get anywhere. ‘Would you like to come in? We’ll have a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘You’ve been so good, to drive me home.’

It was windy, and she was standing in it getting red cheeks, so I had to make up my mind. ‘If it’s a quick one,’ I said, ‘because I promised to take Mother to that symphony concert at the Albert Hall.’ The lie was innocent, but I made it to put Miss Bolsover at her ease, knowing she was partial to that form of entertainment.

‘I tried to get tickets for it, but couldn’t,’ she said as I switched off.

‘You can have mine, if you like.’

‘Oh, no, you can’t let your mother down.’

‘I can’t really,’ I said, slamming the door. ‘She loves Beethoven. She’d never forgive me.’

Everybody loves a liar, I thought, but telling myself to stop it from that point on. I picked up a bottle of milk and followed her into the mock-Tudor pebble-dash matchbox bungalow, met by a smell of stale tea and damp upholstery. She asked me to sit on a deep plush sofa while she fussed in the kitchen, but I feasted my eyes on her from the doorway now that she had her coat off, as I often had in the office. It was marvellous, the way you had to get the sack before people would look at you.

She came back with a large silver tray, loaded with tea and a plate of fancy biscuits. ‘I don’t take milk’ she said, ‘but lemon.’

‘Where’s your family?’

‘I only have my brother, and he went to Austria yesterday for three weeks, by car. He’s a keen skier. Not that I see much of him when he’s here.’

‘A lonely existence,’ I said.

‘It is, Michael, but I’m very fond of it. I go a fair amount to the theatre, or concerts. Or I stay in and read, write letters, watch television. I think life is beautiful and fascinating.’

‘So do I,’ I said. ‘I read a good deal too. Books are my favourite pastime. Girls as well, but my girlfriend packed me in because I lost my job.’

‘Really? Sugar?’

‘Yes, six.’

‘I don’t take it myself. But why? You got a better job. Didn’t that please her?’

‘She didn’t wait for me to get another. She was very headstrong. But it’s no use regretting it.’

‘You’re lucky to be able to take it so lightly.’

‘I didn’t. It broke my heart. But what’s done is done. I can’t live like that for the rest of my life.’

Miss Bolsover laughed: ‘I hardly think you’ll have to. But I know what you mean.’

There was a pause, and I took the opportunity to drink off half my tea. It was too weak, but I let that pass. ‘Has it happened to you, then?’

She broke a biscuit in half and put it into her small mouth: ‘At my age it’s bound to have done. I’m thirty-four.’

‘You talk as if you think that’s old,’ I said. ‘My girlfriend was thirty-eight. She was like you in one way because she only looked about twenty-five. Not that she was like you, she was a bit too common if you know what I mean, and she’d been married before, but she had the same wonderful figure, the sort that I’ve always admired. When I was in London last week on business I had a couple of hours to spare, so I went into a gallery and saw some wonderful paintings with that sort of figure. I don’t think anything else can be called a figure at all.’

She sat in an armchair opposite, blushing and smiling at the same time but not, she said, because she was in any way embarrassed at my frankness, which she thought was attractive in me, but because I took some interest in culture. This was true, and when I went on to talk about a few of the books I’d read she became convinced that there was more to me than had ever been apparent at the office.

Looking across the few feet of plush carpet between us I was swollen with the bile of lechery, and wanted to get her in my arms. She wore a thin woollen jumper, large tits shifting as she talked full of serious concern about the world and how good it was to be alive in spite of its ills and all the bad people in it. I agreed, till it occurred to me that too much agreement might not be a good thing. But I had no control over it, and was carried along by the sweet sin of listening and only opening my lips to say that she spoke the truth. Her eyes glittered, as if half a tear were buried in each of them, telling me that this was what she wanted to hear. Not that I doubted her intelligence, for under that soft exterior with the touch of sentimentality no doubt corroding it, she had a fine streak of rational perception. I leaned across and squeezed one of her hands warmly. She pressed mine, in recognition of the common ground we had found between us. Then she realized that I was pulling, as well as squeezing, and with a sudden shift she came over and sat by me on the sofa. ‘Do I have to tell you that I love you?’ I said wearily. My lips against hers pressed straight through to her teeth, because she opened her mouth as I went forward. Then her arms came around me.

After a few minutes we looked at each other, me with what I hoped to be a gaze of honesty, and adoration, she with what seemed to be puzzled embarrassment and an excitement of wanting it that changed the curves of her face so that she hardly seemed the same person I’d known at the office. ‘I love you,’ I said, ‘more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I’d like to marry you.’

She pressed me into her wonderful breasts. ‘Oh Michael, don’t say it. Please don’t.’ I decided not to, in case she started to cry, though that would be no bad match for the passion I felt in her. Nevertheless I said it again, and held her so tight that she couldn’t respond to it. ‘It would be marvellous,’ I murmured into her shoulder. ‘Marvellous.’

She shuddered at the touch of my fingers, then broke away: ‘We really ought not to spoil it.’

‘I love you,’ I said, ‘so it’s the last thing I want to do’ — which set off another round. This time she forgot to tell me not to spoil it, or perhaps she couldn’t say anything at all, as my hand had found the warmest part of her.

We went into her bedroom at six o’clock, and didn’t come out till eight the next morning, when she had to get ready for work. The whole night seemed no longer than five minutes, though I don’t know how many times we worked up to the apple-and-pivot and cried out in the moonlit darkness. I shook like a jelly-baby while driving her to work, afraid of every vehicle that came close: ‘I’ll come and see you tonight,’ I said.

‘Please. I’ll wait for you.’

‘And I’ll ask you to marry me again.’

‘Oh, Michael, I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just say yes,’ I said.

‘You’re wonderful.’

I set her down a hundred yards from the office, then drove home. The house was empty, and I undressed to get into bed. Unable to sleep, because I ached in every last limb, I wondered what I had done in tacking on to Miss Bolsover. Naturally, I wanted it to go on and on, never having tasted such loving before. Perhaps the fact that I had actually stayed all night in bed with her had something to do with it, though not entirely. There was really nothing to think about, but simply to lie there and regret that she wasn’t still with me, only to hope that time would speed along before tonight, and that I would be able to get some rest before setting out again. I drifted into half-sleep, wonderful as only sleep can be when you know that daylight is pushing behind drawn curtains, and that the whole town is going full tilt at hard and boring work.

I don’t know how long I’d been in bed, but I became aware of a battering-ram breaking through to my sweetest dreams. There was no rest for the Devil in heaven, so I put on some trousers and stomped downstairs with half-closed eyes, wondering who the hell it could be at this time of the day. At the back door, which we usually used, no one was there, and just as I was thankfully up on my way to bed the knocking came this time from the front. Any such sound at the door always pushed my heart off course, jacked-up its noise in the veins of my ears. We weren’t used to people rapping at our doors. If a neighbour came to see us she usually called out my mother’s name and walked straight in. A knock meant either a tally man, the police, or a telegram, and since my mother had never bought anything on credit, and neither of us had been in trouble with the police, and no one we knew ever felt in such an urgent frame of mind as to send a telegram, you can imagine that such formal visitations at the door were few and far between. When one did come, and I happened to be in on my own, the effect was of such intensity that it almost had me scared.

Claudine tried to smile, but ended up with a distressful saccharine expression that fixed me in speech and movement to the spot. ‘Come in,’ I said, after a while, and at my brisk tone she gave a normal worried look and followed me through to the kitchen. ‘It’s good to see you.’

She came back sharply: ‘Is it?’

‘Course it is, love. Take your coat off and sit down. I’ll make you a cup of tea. I could do with breakfast, myself.’

‘Breakfast? Do you know what time it is? It’s just gone twelve o’clock.’

‘We’ll call it brunch, then,’ I said from the kitchen stove. I cracked eggs into the pan, and layed enough bacon on the grill for two of us.

‘You must be going to pieces,’ she said, ‘staying in bed so late. It’s terrible. I always knew there was something funny about you.’

‘The sun will never rise on me, and that’s a fact.’

I spread a cloth and put out knives and forks, turned on the radio, gave her a fag, and pushed another lump of coal into the fire, not even wondering why she had come to see me, keeping so busy that I wouldn’t be able to, while she went on and on about how useless I was. ‘Still,’ she said, watching me closely, ‘you are a bit more domesticated than I ever thought.’

‘I’ve often had to look after myself when Mam’s been away, that’s why.’

We pulled up our seats, but she didn’t tuck in as heartily as I’d hoped. ‘It’s good to see you,’ I said, ‘but what’s on your mind?’

‘A lot that you ought to know,’ she answered.

I thought I’d be funny: ‘You’re pregnant?’ I said brightly.

‘You bastard,’ she cried, standing up. ‘How did you know?’

I choked on a piece of bacon rind, ran over to the mirror and yanked it out like a tapeworm. ‘I didn’t. It was a joke.’

‘It’s no joke to me,’ she said, eating a bit faster, now that she’d told me in this back-handed fashion.

‘How’s Alfie Bottesford?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean? What are you getting at?’

I stood by the mantelshelf, riled that she could go on eating at a time like this, till I remembered that she had two mouths to feed. ‘I’m getting at nothing. But you and Alfie are back together, aren’t you?’

‘I won’t talk about it,’ she wept, eating her egg.

‘Suit yourself. You walked out on me.’

She stood up and faced me: ‘And can you wonder at it, Michael-rotten-Cullen? Look at the way you’re living. Lounging in bed all day stinking with sleep. No job. No prospects even. What a deadbeat tramp you are. I can see there’s no hope for me with you, even though I am having your baby. Oh, it’s terrible. I feel awful. I’ll do myself in. I shall. That’s the only thing to do.’

‘If you’re serious about it,’ I said, ‘I’ll give you a couple of bob for the gas, and a cushion to put your head on.’

‘I really beliève you would,’ she said quietly, stunned at my response to her unnatural threat.

‘You bet I would, if that’s the way you feel. I love you so much I’d do anything for you.’

‘You don’t imagine I can feel very good, do you?’

‘No, but don’t come here palming a baby off on me when you’ve been going with Alfie Bottesford for the last month. I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not falling for that one.’

‘I thought you loved me,’ she said, ‘but all that went on between us meant nothing to you. As long as you got what you wanted. Alfie Bottesford’s never in all his life done anything to me. He hasn’t laid a finger on me, ever. And that’s the stone truth, I’m telling you.’

I knew she wasn’t lying — almost. The memory of Miss Bolsover’s ripe body went out through my big toe, and I looked at the one tear of anguish and vinegar that came to Claudine’s pale cheek. ‘Won’t Alfie marry you? You’ve only got to get him to bed once and he won’t know the difference.’

She sat down, with both hands over her face, and I began to feel sorry for her, till she burst out: ‘Oh, you’re so rotten. I can’t believe it. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid to tell Mam and Dad, and hoped you’d come home with me so that we could both do it.’

‘You ditched me,’ I shouted, ‘didn’t you? And now you want to take up with me again! I was bitter about you going off that day, I admit it. You walked out just because I’d lost my job. Do you call that love? And now that you and Alfie Bottesford have been rubbing up together so that he’s got you loaded, you come moaning back to me. I’d like to know what for.’

She leapt up as if to knife me, but before she could say anything I took hold and kissed her: ‘I love you. I’m going mad with love for you, Claudine. I’ll do anything for you. Just tell me and I’ll do it.’ She kissed me back, and in a few minutes was more relaxed.

We stood in front of the mantelshelf mirror smoothing each other’s cheeks with our lips: ‘I came because it’s your baby,’ she said. ‘I want you to come home tonight, and see my parents. We can tell them we’re engaged, and that it would be best if we got married in a month or so.’

‘All right,’ I said, ‘but I can’t come up tonight. Make it tomorrow. One day more or less wain’t mek much difference.’

‘Why not tonight? It’s as good as any other.’

‘My car wants something doing to the engine,’ I said, ‘and a pal of mine who works at a garage can only do it tonight.’

She jumped away: ‘Your car? What car?’

I told her I’d bought it out of my savings. ‘Savings?’ she yelled. ‘You mean you had all this money in the bank while you were going with me, and you didn’t tell me?’

‘That’s right.’

She broke down at this: ‘How can I ever trust you?’

‘Easy. You’ll just have to believe me, then you can. I thought you’d be pleased to hear I’d got a car, but no. You look at me as if I’ve taken to crime. Every good thing I tell you turns out to be the end of the world. I suppose if I tell you something bad you’ll think it’s marvellous. Listen, you know when I said that my old man had been killed in the war, and that’s why I hadn’t got a father?’ I couldn’t stop myself even though I wanted to, though I’m not sure that I did. She looked at me, waiting for something special. ‘Well, I never had a father, at least not one that I’d know. My mother didn’t get married, and I was born from one of her affairs during the war — out of wedlock, as they say, or, to put it in blunt talk, I’m a bastard, a real no-good, genuine twenty-two-carat bastard in every sense of the word, so if ever you call me one again you’ll at least be speaking the truth for the only time in your life, because I don’t believe that you’ve never had hearthrug pie with Alfie Bottesford. The only thing I can’t understand is why you come to me now that he’s knocked you up.’

She roared and cried: ‘I’ve got no one else to turn to, that’s why.’

‘I can’t understand, you’re courting Alfie, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you come to me when you’re pregnant. All right, if you want thirty quid to get rid of it I’ll give it to you.’ One of the men at the office had done it for his girlfriend, and putting the same proposition to Claudine made me feel big.

A bottle smashed over my head, a small compact square sauce bottle she snatched from the table. I grabbed her and slapped into her face. She cried out, and I thought that if this free-for-all went on much longer we’d have the neighbours in to part us. ‘I came here because it’s yours,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’

A thin red line trickled over my nose, and I knelt down to wipe it with a corner of the tablecloth. ‘If that’s the way you feel,’ I said, ‘I’ll be at your house at half past six tomorrow night.’

‘Tonight,’ she demanded.

‘Tomorrow. I must get my car fixed. It’s the only chance I’ve got. He goes to Mablethorpe first thing in the morning to see his aunt. So it’ll just have to be tomorrow. I promise.’

‘If you aren’t there,’ she said, ‘I’ll come with my father and mother. I will, and I mean it.’

‘You won’t have to,’ I said, with my best honest smile. I love you. I really do. I’ve never loved anyone else. I’m already beginning to see how nice it’ll be to live in a married way with you.’ She sat on my knee, and my old passion came back for her: ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I said. After a little more persuading she agreed. We lay in bed till four o’clock, and then she left, thinking that all was well again. I went back and dozed in the marvellous rumpled sheets until it was time to drive to Miss Bolsover’s.

‘How long can it last?’ Gwen wanted to know.

‘Years,’ I said. ‘Why?’

‘I always ask myself that, and it’s a bad sign.’

‘If I love someone it’s for ever — unless I’m ditched. Then it’s not my fault. But you don’t need to ask it with me.’ We lay on the rug in front of her electric fire.

‘I ask it with everyone,’ she said, ‘then I can’t blame it on the fact that I asked it — if it goes wrong. But I ask it. I can’t help it.’

‘If that’s the way you like it,’ I said, ‘but as far as I’m concerned I love you, and that’s that.’

‘Oh Michael — you’re so strong and simple. You’re so direct. That’s what I love most about you. I can understand you, and I’ve never had that feeling before.’ It was hard to take this as a compliment, though I saw that in one way she was right. I’d felt for a long time that I couldn’t do anything at all unless I was simple, so in order not to be paralysed I fought to keep that simplicity. And Miss Bolsover’s approbation of it was flattering in this respect, but if I loved her for saying it, it was only because she had said something at all.

She made a short meal of meat, chips and salad, and served us both on a small table in the living-room. She had a huge bathgown over her, and I wore her brother Andrew’s smoking-jacket. I stroked her hand at each mouthful, which made me feel like a husband, and also as if I owned the house — both new sensations for me. Afterwards I smoked a Whiff, and talked her into a few puffs of it. Then we went to bed, not at midnight like grown-ups, but at eight o’clock, driven there by a pure and marvellous lust to get back to the centre of things.

But as usual lust did not mean force, because Claudine had blunted me, so we romped for an hour, though Gwen (if I could by now be permitted to call her that?) tried to pull me on immediately, and when she saw it wasn’t possible started to mother me. I cured her of this by a few slaps on her fat behind, which she didn’t object to, and then our loving continued through a couple of deep and meaty encounters. When I began to get dressed, she asked what was the matter. ‘I love you,’ I said, ‘but I must go. I have an appointment to meet a client early in the morning. I was late yesterday (for the most wonderful reason in the world) but if I don’t get in at the right time tomorrow, it’ll look bad.’

She embraced me, her warm naked body against my shirt and trousers, or rather she grasped me, and turned her full lips for a big kiss, which I gave with my heart bursting. ‘Tomorrow night?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I’ll be here. You can bet. You’ve got me for ever, you know.’

‘I don’t want you for ever,’ she said. ‘I only want you for now. Always is not good for anybody.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I told her, ‘we’ll be together in that rough old spring again. It’s a sidereal mantrap that gets us all, you as well as me.’

I was weeping in tune to her creaking heart when I got into my car, but I cheered up as I drove home in the moonless night. I made my tunnel through the black dark, fumigating my cluttered mind so that by the time I pulled up at the kerb it was obvious what I should do. It was necessary to act in haste, so that one never had cause to repent, because if you act in haste there can’t be anything to blame yourself for, and that is a state of mind I relished. I had been acting like the Caliph of Baghdad in the last few weeks, and now the time had come to stop all that, to reform and go my own ways. Perhaps I had a sense of sin after all, for I wanted now and again to be pure so as to boost my self-esteem for when the time came around to sin again.

It was one in the morning when I looked at my gold watch in the dim bedroom light. I took the suitcase from my wardrobe, and lay it open on my bed, which still had the perfume smell of Claudine on it. I buried my face there for a second or two. But there was no time to be lost. I put on a clean shirt and my best suit, and packed my other clothes neatly in. Looking around, there was nothing else but a line of books along the washstand, and they would have to stay. It surprised me that I owned so little, though at a time like this it was a pleasant discovery to make. After all, I did have a car and a watch, as well as a hundred pounds. What more could anybody want? There was also a small transistor radio and I saw myself speeding along the main road with it lying on the seat beside me, thumping, out some great symphony. It was small, but powerful, and Mam had liked the tone very much when I first showed it to her.

I was careful to make no noise in case I woke her up, but the door suddenly opened and there she was. ‘You’re off, are you?’

I put in two pairs of pyjamas, one clean and one dirty. ‘Yes.’

‘Where to?’

‘North, east, south, and west.’

‘That really does sound as if you know what you’re doing, I must say.’

‘I’ll let you know where I am,’ I said, botched at the throat, and all the way down into my bottom gut.

‘That’s something, anyway.’ I was going to give her half my money, but didn’t because it spared her the dignity and embarrassment of telling me to keep it. I was sure to need it more than she would, and in any case her wages were sufficient for all her wants. ‘All I ask from you,’ she said, ‘is that you take care of yourself. That’s all I’d like you to do for me.’

I tried to smile, but could only lie: ‘I’m not going for good.’

‘Don’t lie to me,’ she said.

‘I’m not lying — that’s all I can say.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Only don’t be cheeky, and get going if you’re going to. I’ll go back to bed. If you’re around in the morning I’ll make breakfast. If you’re not, I’ll get it on my own.’

I kissed her. ‘You’ll hear from me.’

‘Don’t be so bleddy sloppy,’ she said, breaking free and going to her own room.

I set the alarm for six and lay down in my clothes. It seemed only a second later that it jangled my ears, and then I remembered what I was up to, so jumped out of bed and went downstairs with my case. I left my transistor radio on the table with a note saying I wouldn’t need it while I was away. Then I made tea and lingered for an hour, until I heard her moving upstairs, getting dressed for work. I went out, quietly closing the door behind me.

The streets were empty, I noted, getting into my black all-enveloping travel-bug car. It wouldn’t start. The night had been wet, but now the clouds were shifting, and I lifted the bonnet and dried the contacts with my handkerchief. Not being mechanically minded, and lacking motorized experience, I knew nothing about cars, and I was swearing in case it should let me down at such a critical laughable time. It would be unjust, because I had no plans for it to waylay and spoil. I was acting without any plan whatsoever, and that was enough to make me innocent in the eyes of prankish worn-out motorcars. Still, I cranked it up, in case conciliation was necessary from a trickster like me, and when I sat in it once more and twitched on the ignition I felt the sweet shake of life under me, and after a few parting roars to the empty street and the benighted morning, I was off, slowly at first up the cobblestones, and then swiftly along Lenton Boulevard, skirting the city centre, by the valley of the Leen that took me under the heights of the Castle.

It was still dark, and only my own lights and the roadlights led me away. There was no heater in the car, and my greatcoat was wrapped around me, a scarf muffling my neck and chin. Because I was still so tired from the last few days, my brain was clear. I remember it well, a familiar feeling. At the same time I didn’t think ahead, or tell myself where I was going. I knew, but I didn’t tell myself. It didn’t even occur to me not to tell myself. I was in that balance of knowing, but not wanting to know, and maybe I was helped to maintain it by the disturbing physical action of driving the car.

I went slowly across Trent Bridge and glimpsed the sky to the left, eastwards. The dawn was mixing in, all fiery and noble, watery and red, so I stepped on it and took the first turning left, on my way to join the Great North Road to Grantham.