A Kind of Loving (18 page)

'Better than the view from my old digs,' David says. 'A coal-
dealer's yard, half a dozen rows of terraced houses, and the
biggest Nonconformist chapel I've ever seen.'

'Have you never been to Cleckheaton?' the Old Man says,
his face never slipping. 'You want to get our Chris to take you
sometime. A lovely spot. They've got biggest Methodist chapel
there 'at
I've
ever seen. An' another nearly as big on t'other side
o't'road.'

'Ghastly places,' David says.

' Ho'd on, lad,' the Old Man says.' They were built to the glory of God, young feller. Just imagine the spirit 'at went into putting
'em up.'

'Oh, yes, agreed,' David says. 'It's a pity that they're mostly
white elephants today. It's the architecture I'm referring to.
Why must almost all the big buildings in the West Riding be either Greek or Italian? Every other one you see looks like the Parthenon covered in soot.'

'Because we believe in having t'best there is,' the Old Feller
says.

'But is there no typically Yorkshire architecture?'

'Aye, Collinson's mill,' the Old Man says, grinning. He points.
" That one wi' t'biggest chimney o' t'lot.'

David smiles. 'Well, I must admit that the West Riding isn't
as bad as it's painted. I've been pleasantly surprised since living
here.'

'It's not everybody's cup o' tea,' the Old Man admits. 'Some
fowk like summat a bit ... well,
softer,
if you know what I
mean...'

They get on talking about various parts of the country because
the Old Man fancies himself as having knocked about a bit,
and every now and again he has to admit that other places might
have something. I get up and wander over to the bookcase by the
fireplace. There's a chinking of pots from the little kitchen and every now and then either Chris or the Old Lady will march
through with something else to put on the folding-leaf table
they've got opened out in the middle of the floor. David's chief
subject is English Lit. and there's a lot of Shakespeare and dull
classics stuff on the shelves. I'm just browsing there, passing time
on till the tea's ready, and this fat book with a green back takes
my eye. I pick it out and notice the thing on the spine, what I
took to be a snake, is a bow like they used in ancient times. I look at the title,
Ulysses,
and the name of the author, James Joyce, and
they don't mean a thing to me; but seeing as I've got the book
out I open it and leaf a few pages over. The next minute I've
dropped on a bit near the end that nearly makes my hair stand up. As far as I can make out it's a bint in bed or somewhere
thinking about all the times she's had with blokes. It knocks me
sideways, it really does. I mean, I've seen these things what some
times get passed on from hand to hand on mucky bits of typing paper - you know, all about the vacuum cleaner salesman who
goes to a house and finds a bint in on her own - but I've never
seen anything like this actually
printed.
Well, I'm racing through
it, catching up on my education fast (it's the sort of stuff you
race through because it's her thoughts, see, just as they come -
and nothing left out, believe you me - and there's no commas or full stops or anything and all the sentences run into one another just the way they do when you're thinking yourself, I suppose). Anyway, I'm standing there taking all this in - or at least, all the
spicy bits - when David comes over and asks me if I've found
anything interesting.

I'm a bit embarrassed, though I don't know why because it's his book, not mine, and I say with a little laugh, 'This is a bit hot, isn't it? I didn't know they let 'em print stuff like this.'

'It went through several courts before free publication was sanctioned,' David says.

'I'll bet...' and I'm thinking, well, fancy old David reading stuff like this, and leaving it around for Chris to see an' all. 'Is it supposed to be good or something?'

'It's a masterpiece,' David says. 'There's no other word for it.
It's one of the most significant books in the language.'

I'm thinking I'd like to have a go at it when I'm on my own
and I say, 'You'll have to lend it to me sometime.'

'I'm afraid you'd find it very dull,' David says. 'It's not an easy
book to read. There's so much below the surface that it takes
several readings before you begin to grasp it ...
Anyway,
I
shouldn't want your mother, for instance, to pick it up and open
it where you did. She mightn't understand.'

'You bet your boots she wouldn't. What does Chris think to
it?'

'She hasn't read it. She knows what it's about, and its reputa
tion, and she says she doesn't feel obliged to go any further.'

He takes another book out. 'What about this?' I look at the
title. 'Oh, Raymond Chandler. Yes, I've read this one. I've
read three or four of his: all they've got in the library.'

'You like to read?'

' Oh, yes; I'm reading all the time. Beats television into a cocked
hat, reading does.'

' What kind of books do you read?'

'Oh, thrillers, war stories, that sort of thing. You know ... Why don't you write a book, David? A war book, I mean.
You've had plenty of adventures, haven't you?'

'Too many ...' He puts the Chandler back on the shelf. 'I
did start one once, a book about my experiences in the prison
camp ... But there have been so many it didn't seem much use.'
He pulls another book out and hands it to me. 'Now if I could
write a war story as good as that one it wouldn't matter how many
there had been before.'

It's called
For Whom the Bell Tolls.
'I've seen a picture of this,'
I tell him as it comes to mind. 'It's a fairly old one but they reissued it a while back. Gary Cooper and Ingrid Bergman were
in it... It was good.'

Ingrid ... Ingrid ... I'm hardly listening when David says
to take the book with me and see how I like it.

A bit later I nip into the kitchen for a word with Chris while the Old Lady's out for a minute. 'I say, Chris, you won't mind if I beetle off about half-six, will you?'

She's slicing hard-boiled eggs for the salad. 'I shall be mortally
offended,' she says. 'Invited for the first time to my new home
and you can't get away soon enough. Is it something important?'

'Top priority. I wouldn't have gone out tonight only there was
a bit of a mix-up and now I really have to.'

'What's her name?' Chris says.

'Oh, you don't know her.'

'I shall know her a bit better if you tell me what they call her. You do know, I suppose?'

'Course I do. They call her Ingrid Rothwell. You'll not say
anything to me mother about it, will you? You know how she is.
I mean, well, I'll tell her myself sometime, if... you know.'

Chris smiles, one of them lovely little smiles she has that
make you feel everything's all right with the world and every
thing. 'I know,' she says.

The Old Lady bustles in licking butter off her fingers and
wiping them down this apron of Chris's that she would put on.
'Cmon,' she says to me; 'out of it. Can't do wi' men cluttering the place up, hindering the job ... How're we doing?' she says
to Chris. 'I think we're nearly ready, aren't we?'

' If you wouldn't mind mashing the tea.'

'Right you are, love.'

A few minutes later we're all sitting round the table and Chris starts talking about some of the things they saw on their honey
moon and this gets the Old Man started on London. It's one of
the
things about the Old Feller that niggles you a bit the way he
thinks he's an expert on London because he was there a bit in the
Great War and he's been two or three times since to brass band
contests or Rugby League Cup Finals. It doesn't put him off a bit that he's sitting next to David who was born in the place. In
a bit he gets so much at sea that even Chris has to pull him up.

'But the place you're talking about isn't even hi Leicester
Square, Dad,' she says.

'It wa' t'last time I wa' there,' the Old Feller says. 'Are you
tryin'to tell me I don't know London?'

'He'd tell Joe Davis how to play billiards,' I say and the Old Man says, 'You keep a still tongue in your head, young feller,' and lifts his first finger up to lay the law down. 'I'm tellin' you 'at when Ezra Dykes an' me were down for t'
Daily Herald'Brass
Band Contest in 1949 ... No, wait a minute ... war it '51? ...' He turns to the Old Lady. 'You remember that year. War it '49 or '51?'

'I don't know owt about it,' the Old Lady says, poker-faced.
' You'd better shut up an' get your tea.'

And David, who's sided with nobody, looks up at this and
gives me a quiet wink,

At twenty-five past six I go into the bathroom and have a wash, then while the Old Lady's busy in the kitchen helping
Chris with the washing-up I get my coat and nip out down the
stairs.

She is waiting for me on the comer by Barclays Bank. She's
got a blue coat on that fits to her figure, with a big fur collar and
no hat. Her shoes have the highest heels I've ever seen her in.
I see her before she sees me and it's like half of me's over there with her before I start to cross the road.

'Hello.'

'Hello. You got my letter, then?'

'Yes, I got it.'

I'm holding her hands with gloves on and looking at her while
she babbles on all about why she was so late last night. Now I know it wasn't deliberate I'm not interested, but she will go on,
giving me every little detail.

'What was his name?' I say, breaking into it.

'Who?'

'This porter you got to help you with the case.'

'How should I know?' she says, and then she sees I'm taking the mickey and she says,' Yes, I do go on, don't I? And it doesn't really matter, does it?'

'Not a bit.'

'I don't know what you must have thought of me, though.'

'Forget it. It's okay now.'

'What did you do?' she says. 'Did it waste your evening?
Did you wait long?'

I tell her I went to the pictures with a pal and ask her how
she came to think of writing the note. Because this is the real good bit about it all. She meant to come all right, and that's
something; but to think of writing the note when she was late, that
meant she cared about it and couldn't just let things slide. She
had to
do
something.

'It just came to me,' she says. 'I thought if I let you know straight away you'd realize I couldn't help it. If I'd waited till
Monday it would have had all week-end to pile up in - you know
what I mean? - and it would have taken a lot more putting right
then. I was afraid you might think I'd done
it on purpose you see.'