A Kind of Loving (23 page)

'I suppose so.' Me and the Old Man haven't talked like this for
a long time. Come to think of it, we don't talk much at all except
to say where's the boot polish and pass the salt.

'I'm not tryin' to push you off or any thin', mind,' he says. 'I just want you to know 'at I see the position and if you do decide it'll be best to make a move it'll be up to you. I don't want you to think there's anybody here holding you back.'

'No, I see that.'

'Course, your mother'll not like it. You're still nobbut a bairn to her.'

'If I'd been in another job she'd maybe have had to like it or
lump it. a couple of years ago.'

'You mean your National Service?'

'Aye.'

'D'ye think you'll ever have it to do now?'

'I don't think so. There's a lot of us up at WMttaker's got
deferment. I don't think they'll ever bother us now. They'll be
packing it up altogether soon by the looks of things.'

' Well, that's all right, then.'

'I wish I had gone up sometimes, y'know.'

'You'd just ha lost two years' experience an' wasted your time.'

'I think it might have given me a fresh slant on things. You know, broadened me outlook. I talk to these lads who've had service abroad and I think I've never seen anything stopping at
home.'

'Well, it gets a lad away from Ms mother's apron string,' the
Old Man s'ays. 'Teaches him to stand on his own feet. But
for broadening your outlook, I don't know. I reckon it depends
on the man. I knew fellers in 1916 'at were just as gormless when
they came out as they were when they went in. It didn't learn 'em
owt. Except 'at politicians makes wars an' us ordinary chaps has to fight'em.'

He empties his glass and I reach for it as he sets it down.' Have
another?'

He looks up at the electric wall-clock and says, 'Aye, all right.'

'I
wa' thinkin' o' poppin' over to see Huddersfield Town a Saturday,' he says when I come back with the hew drinks. 'Fancy an afternoon out?'

'I shall be at the shop, Dad,' I remind him.

'Oh, aye, o' course. I wa' forgettin'. Ah well, it can't be helped. Seems a long time sin' we had a day out together like that.'

It does. I can't remember the last time. I lift my glass. 'Well,
we're having a night out now.'

The Old Man twinkles. 'Aye, you're right, lad, we are. We
shan't have to be too long, though, as your mother 'ull be
wondering where we've got to.'
,

I'm watching a little feller who's buying a pint at the back
counter and looking across at the Old Man. In a minute he comes over with his glass and puts his hand on the Old Feller's shoulder.

'How go, Arthur? How ye keepin', lad?'

The Old Man looks up. 'Well, I'll be blessed if it isn't Herbert!
Wha, I haven't seen thee
in
ages, lad. Sit thissen down, lad, sit thissen down.'

The little feller pulls a buffet up and sits down. He's quite well-
dressed in a grey tweed overcoat and a green trilby, but there's
no mistaking what he is, even without the blue marks on his face
and hands.

'You don't know my lad, do you, Herbert?' the Old Man says.
'My eldest lad, that is. T'other's still at school, but Victor here's a draughtsman up at Whittaker's, y'know.' There's a touch of
pride in the Old Man's voice and I'm surprised because it's never
occurred to me he might be proud of me. Of Chris, yes, and
young Jim, but not me.

'Is he, by gow?' the little feller says. 'A draughtsman, eh?
That's better nat'pit, eh?'
.

'You're dead right,' I say.

'I allus said 'at mine wouldn't be forced into t'pit like I wa','
the Old Feller says.

'This is a golden age for young fowk, Arthur,' the little chap
says. 'Not like our young days. Then there wa' nowt else but pit
or f mills. An' us fathers were on'y too ready to send vis down
to addle 'em some brass. I have a lad o' me own hi t'Coal Board
offices, y'know. He's allus grumblin' about size of his wage
packet compared wi' mine. I tell him he doesn't know he's born.
It's worth three
quid a week to go to work at nine o'clock an'
be able to see daylight through t'winders. My job 'ud kill him in
a week. Less.'

He lifts his glass and sinks half his pint. I watch the level fall
and know he's a chap who likes his booze. As if he's read my thoughts, he says, 'I don't know what I'd do wi'out me pint, Arthur. I sometimes think it's t'only thing 'at keeps me goin'.' He brings a packet of Woodbines out and hands them round.
'They ought to give us a free ration of it, like they do coal,' he
says, and laughs.

'Where are you working now then, Herbert?' the Old Man
asks him when we've all three lit up.

'I've been at Roundwood for t'past three year, fillin' on t'days.'

'Roundwood, Wakefield?' the Old Man says. "That's a tidy way to travel, isn't it?'

'Oh, I have a car,' the little feller says. 'Gi'n over bussing it
years sin'. I can be at work in twenty minutes thru stepping out of
the house.'

'Doing it in style, eh, Herbert?'

'Why not?' Herbert says. 'We've never had it as good as
this last ten year, Arthur, an' I'm niakin' t'best on it while it lasts.'

'How d'ye mean, while it lasts? You don't think there'll be a
slump, do you?'

'It won't allus be like this,' the little chap says. 'I've seen too
much o' t'shabby times and to think 'at this'll last for ever.'

^'Oh, I don't know, Herbert. I don't see why it shouldn't.'

'Funny thing happen, Arthur. You'd think 'at fowk 'ud allus
want coal. An' so they will for a long time yet. But we've both
seen times when fowk had empty grates and coal were standin' in
mountains in t'pit yards, doin' nowt. It's a question of economics, Arthur; an' chaps like thee an' me knows nowt about that. All we
know is coal-gettin', when they'll let us do it...'

I listen to them natter on. From coal-getting and economics
they get on to politics. They're both Labour, of course, so they've
nothing much to argue about there. Then they get on to sport
and Huddersfield Town where they can have a difference of
opinion on one or two points; but all very matey like. While this is going on the little feller gets himself another pint and has our
glasses filled up. Then the Old Feller buys him a pint and we have
our glasses filled again. I'm thinking it's a good job it's mild we're drinking because by the time the clock shows twenty to ten we've
had five glasses apiece and the little feller's well on with Ms fourth pint.

'Just look what time it is,' the Old Man says.' Wes'll have to be off.'

'It's taken you some time tonight,' the Old Lady says when
we go in. The house is lovely and warm and full of the smell of
ironing.

'Aye,' the Old Man says,-and Old Lady takes a quick look at
both of us. 'I see,' she says. "That's where you've been spending
your time.'

'Aye, we just felt like an odd 'un,' the Old Feller says, taking
his jacket off. The beer's put a twinkle in his eye and the Old Lady can't bear to think she's being laughed at any time.

'You want taking Victor into such places,' she says. 'Learning him bad habits.'

'I reckon it's about time he learned to take a drink in modera
tion,' the Old Man says. He sits down in his chair and crosses his legs to take his boots off.

"They learn soon enough on their own, these days. An' you
want to remember you've another son an' all. You want to set an
example for him.'

Jim's sitting reading and taking not a bit of notice of all this.

'I reckon my example's good enough for any son o' mine,'
the Old Man says, and winks at me while the Old Lady's got her
back turned. I wink back. I'm feeling a bit drunk and I'm keeping
my mouth shut and moving very carefully so's the Old Lady won't
notice.

It looks for a minute as if she's going to say some more on the
subject; then she seems to decide to let it drop and goes on iron
ing, hanging the clothes on the bars of the clothes-horse as she
finishes them.

CHAPTER 7

'was
that right?' she says into my ear. 'Did I do it
properly?'

'Yes,'I say,'that was right.'

I'm down flat on my back on my raincoat by her side and
looking at the branches of the trees between us and the sky. It's a high sky tonight, big and pale, with dark shadows of clouds
chasing across it, and you can't see the moon. For a few seconds
there's nothing; I'm empty, not thinking, kind of not living
nearly. Then there's a twinge of shame; that's the first thing that comes. I find out after it's always the first thing that comes, but
I'm a bit more hardened to it then than I am now. And now
I'm thinking straight: I've nothing else on my mind. I'm thinking
straighter and clearer than I ever have since I first looked twice at
her and wondered what my chances were. I'm thinking straight
and clear and it's terrible, because I don't love her, and that's the
awful truth. I don't even
like
her much now. Not because of what
we've done, though that's the way I know that after the first few
dates, when I wanted nothing from her except to be with her and
have her like me, that was what was stopping me from seeing I
didn't love her after all. And I never did have a chance to get
to know if I liked her - like you like some people just for what
they are and nothing else to it - because the first time I really noticed her I loved her and I hadn't spoken two words to her in my life. Now I wonder how I've stood it as long as I have: her
gossip and silly scandal and her small talk about television and
quiz shows and every little detail about how some lucky housewife
from Wolverhampton or Tooting won a, refrigerator or three
thousands pairs of nylons and a holiday in America by answering
questions you'd have got your arse tanned if you didn't know the
answers to in Standard Four. But now I do know how I've stood
it and that just isn't here any more and there's nothing else -just
nothing. And when I think that only a matter of weeks ago I'd
have gone to the ends of the earth for her nearly I just don't
understand it. I don't understand it at all.