A Start in Life (12 page)

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.

Part Two

It is a common belief, after being hurt by them, that simple people are not so much wise as cunning. This is wrong. They are neither. They have the knack of becoming united with their souls at certain inspired times, that's all. Even then, they do not know what harm they have done. It is like a snake that has poison available when it is forced to strike. A simple person never strikes unless he has to, for he is basically lazy. Thus when he is driven to strike he uses far more venom than necessary because he was dragged unwillingly out of his simplicity and sloth which is, in effect, laziness. Something like this was in my mind when I remembered Miss Bolsover's view of me as simple. Though it should have flattered me, and in some ways did, I could never forgive her for it. Thus I felt no blame, as I drove towards Grantham, at having left her for good. Claudine at least knew better than to think I was strong and simple, and for that reason it was rather more difficult to get her out of my mind.

But I was never a victim of too much thought, at least not to the extent that it did me any good, so I lit a cigar and got the pedal down at Radcliffe by-pass, until my speed was touching fifty, a fair lick as far as I was concerned. There was no reason for hurrying. A slight rain spat down, and my wipers tackled it sluggishly as if the batteries had been low and still weren't charging properly. The engine was healthy, however, so I trundled on, beginning to make a road map of England under my wheels – though the winter didn't seem too good a time for it, and now that I was on my way I didn't love my freedom as I'd thought I would. In fact I began to feel a bit too much on my own, not only as if I didn't know where I was going (which was true) but also as if I didn't know where I had come from (which was false). But, I told myself, you can't make a move like this without feeling as if a compass needle is struggling to find a way out of your guts. It would have been more natural if I had stolen the car and was making a getaway. There would have been some point in it then, but unfortunately I hadn't been brought up to be a thief, so I couldn't have the dubious benefit of that And if I'd make-believed it to be true, just to get a kick out of going away, it would have been telling lies, and I hadn't been reared to be a liar either, at least not to myself. So nothing was on my side except bleak reality, and for the moment I had to make do with that.

I felt better with Grantham left behind and me dipping south along the Great North Road. The land was black and bleak and waterlogged, and the tarmac cluttered with lorries so that I got scared yellow overtaking with hardly the speed or charge to do so, which made me realize for the first time that my cronky old car wasn't exactly the high-powered javelin I'd supposed it to be at first, out of heartfelt affection for it. I told myself though, that I mustn't lose faith in my piece of machinery, otherwise it might be tempted not to do its best, or even let me down if I got discouraged without real cause.

A heavier rain drifted in from the Fens, and one or two drops came through the makeshift patches in the roof, though not enough as yet to have me worried. But I swore at having forgotten the roll of sticky paper. Against the roadside stood a solitary figure in a cap and mackintosh, a small case at his feet. He lifted his thumb, so I drew in and stopped, forgetting to flash my indicators. A lorry close behind, weighing several thousand tons, pressed its horns in rage, making such a noise that the top of my head nearly unscrewed itself. The man smiled: ‘He's in a bit of a hurry. They always are, though.'

‘The bastard,' I said. ‘Where are you going?'

He was about thirty, tall and thin, gnarled hands as he put them on my window. ‘South.'

I liked his succinctness. ‘So am I. Get in if you like.'

‘I will,' he said, ‘if you don't mind.'

‘My name's Peter Wolf,' I said, as he slammed the door so I thought it would drop off.

‘Likewise,' he said.

‘What do you mean,' I asked, ‘likewise?'

‘Mine's Bill Straw,' he said, with the most obvious idiot grin I'd ever seen from someone who was plainly alert and all there. I was nervous with another person in the car, in case I had an accident, so till I got used to him, I drove like a man of sixty-five who'd been a careful saver all his life. ‘Come far?' he asked.

‘Derby,' I said. ‘You?'

‘Leeds. Business or pleasure?'

‘Business,' I told him. ‘I work for an insurance firm. Just spent three days in Derby wrapping up a contract for Rolls-Royce. Hell of a job. Cigarette?'

‘Please. Thanks. Going down to look for work, myself.'

‘What do you do?'

‘Anything,' he told me cheerfully. ‘Just done two years as an interior decorator. That's why I'm so pale. It's a lousy job among all that paint. Don't know what I'll do in London. It's a big place.'

I nodded. ‘You can say that for it.' The one time I had been was on a school trip as a kid of twelve, when I'd seen Buckingham Palace (from the outside) and the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London (also from the outside). ‘There's plenty of work there.'

‘There's work anywhere,' he said with a glum wisdom, ‘and that's a fact. But I'm going south because it's healthier. Can't this grim bus go any quicker?'

‘If you're in that much of a hurry,' I said, ‘get out and walk. 'Appen you'll pick up a Bentley to get you there for lunch.'

‘Come off it,' he laughed. ‘I wain't desert you.'

‘Take your pick. I'll be stopping for a cup of tea and a swiss pudding soon.'

‘I could do with a bite as well,' he said, in such a way that I knew he hadn't got the money to pay for it.

The transport café was full, with a line of men at the counter. I felt their sarky looks at my collar and tie and best grey suit, as if I had no right to be getting in their way, so I handed Bill Straw half a crown and said: ‘Get two teas and two cakes,' while I sat at a table and waited. There was a
Daily Mirror
a foot from my hand, and I reached for it to read the front page, but a huge driver coming back from the counter with his breakfast of eggs, chips, sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fritters, and fried bread bawled out: ‘If you want a paper, buy one, mate, like I have to.'

He loomed over me. ‘All right,' I said, ‘keep your shirt on.' I stood up, as tall as he was, though not quite as meaty. ‘Nobody's trying to make off with your paper. I was moving it out of the way so's I could have somewhere to put my tea.'

He recognized my Nottingham accent: ‘I just thought you was one of them posh bleeders trying to save threepence.'

‘Not me,' I said, as he chopped and scooped at his breakfast. Bill Straw came back and sat by chance where I could get a better look at him. ‘You didn't sound much like an insurance nob to me just then,' he said, ‘when you stood up to that pansy lorry driver.'

‘Keep your trap shut, for Christ's sake, or he'll have you on toast.'

‘He won't,' Bill said. ‘I'll carve
him
up. I've done it before and I'll do it now.' I believed him. His face was thin, as though he'd fought with a razor now and again in his life to get what he wanted. Yet he had a few days' growth of beard, and I thought he should use one at his own face to start with. His suit was threadbare in all places at once, and his filthy shirt was drawn together with a tie so old that it had a hole in the front. ‘Good of you to treat me,' he said. ‘First bite since yesterday.'

I pushed another half-crown across: ‘Get something else, then.'

He jumped up: ‘I shan't forget this,' and almost ran to the front of the queue, so that I expected to see him get churned into little pieces and spat out through the windows. But he bustled at the nearest men, and gave them a strong sort of funny look, and it must have made things all right for him, because within minutes he was back with two eggs on fried bread which he scoffed almost before the plate was down. ‘You're number one,' he said. ‘You might not know it, but you've saved my life. It's the turning point.'

‘Stow it,' I said. ‘Forget it.'

‘I shan't,' he said. ‘I never will. You're the good sort, I know, who'd like me to forget it, but I wain't. Never.'

I was surprised at the colour it put into his cheeks, and offered a fag to complete his meal. ‘You don't seem to have earned much as a painter and decorator.'

‘Maybe I wasn't doing that sort of work at all,' he smiled. ‘When we're on the road again I'll tell you a story. It's so bloody long it'll keep us going to Timbuctoo, never mind London.'

From outside came the sound of a lorry about to drive off, and under the noise of its engine I heard the ripping of tin and a crunch of gravel or glass. Someone at the counter said: ‘There goes Mad Bert. I expect he's chipped somebody's wagon.'

A man went to have a look, and came back laughing, while Mad Bert in the meantime seemed to have gone on his merry way towards Doncaster. ‘It's all right,' he said, ‘it's only a little black Popular. He's taken the front bumper off, dented the side, and smashed the lamp. I expect Bert's all right though.'

I jumped up and went outside, all eyes staring me through the door. The rain blinded and choked me. Apart from anything else I wondered why I'd chosen today to start on my travels. It was even worse than had been reported with such poker-faced glee. The left back wheel had been buckled, its tyre flattened and ripped.

Bill Straw followed me out. ‘The destructive bastard. Got a spare wheel?' I nodded. ‘Let's change it then,' he said. ‘I'll not desert you, don't worry. You looked after me, now I'll help you. It ain't so bad. She'll go like a bomb again.' He bent down and pulled the bodywork straight so that the fresh wheel wouldn't catch on it. The meal seemed to have given him strength, and I was glad of that at least.

In ten minutes we had the new wheel on. ‘The other's buckled,' he said. ‘You might as well throw it away. Ain't worth a light.' I agreed, and he bowled it towards a fence and left it there.

‘Let's have some more tea,' I said when he got back. ‘Maybe we'll find out the name of the bandit who did it.' There was a sharp pain in my heart, and tears mingled with rain under my eyes. No one knew who Mad Bert was, or said they didn't, so after throwing a few curses over our shoulders we humped out. ‘That's the solidarity of the working-class,' Bill muttered. ‘Very strong among lorry drivers.'

‘Well, fuck it,' I said, ‘we're working-class, aren't we?'

‘Not at a time like this, cock.'

In spite of its fearful wounds I felt a swamp of affection for my car as we went down the road. I was in a state of shock from my first automobile accident. All I wanted was peace and quiet, and didn't much fancy any talk from my passenger. In fact I was beginning to wish I'd never picked him up, and made up my mind that there'd be no more lifts from then on. I was brooding so badly that I almost got to blaming him for what had happened, till I realized how cranky this was, and laughed. ‘What's up?' he asked.

‘We're on our way,' I told him. ‘The rain's packing in. It's light over Stamford.'

‘We could do with it. But what's that smoke coming out of your headlamp?' Through the drizzle it was like a gnarled finger going a little way into the air, as if diffident about the prospect of finding God's arse. ‘What now?' I cried.

‘Pull in when you can, and I'll fix it. I'm a dab-hand when it comes to cars.' His voice had such conviction, such solemn wisdom, that he sounded as if he'd lived for three hundred years and knew everything. ‘When I stopped on a grass verge he jumped to the front of the car and peered into the lamp. ‘Switch off,' he shouted. ‘Now put your lights on. Put them off. Now on. Off. On. Off. On. No. it's no good.'

‘What is it then?' I wanted to know.

‘Don't worry. You'll reach London today, as long as we get there before lighting-up time.' He was wrestling with the whole headlamp, as if it had threatened to come out and do for him. His two hands gripped it, a sort of spiteful look now on his face.

‘Leave it,' I cried, getting out. ‘Stop it.'

He fell back with it in his hand and, as if it could still sting, threw it with mighty strength clean over a hedge.

‘That wasn't bloody-well necessary.'

‘Didn't I say I knew about cars? Listen, I was a garage mechanic for three years. All the wires in that lamp had fused. You'd have had a fire on your hands if it'd bin left in. Got a fire extinguisher on board? Of course you bloody-well haven't. I'm not stupid, so don't think so.'

‘Keep your shirt on,' I said, beaten for the moment. ‘Let's get going.'

True to its promise, there was sun beyond Stamford, and we both became more friendly at the feel of it through the windscreen. ‘I'll get on with my story,' said Bill.

‘I'm listening,' I said, skating around a lorry and feeling for a moment as if neither of us would come out of it alive. But Bill hadn't shown a tremor, seemed to have absolute faith in my ability to get him to London. I began to have faith too, in him, glad now that I'd picked him up, in spite of the terrible (though necessary, I had to suppose) piece of brute surgery on my brand-new second-hand car.

My name isn't really Bill Straw,' he said, ‘but don't let that bother you. What's in a name, anyway? I was born in Worksop thirty-seven years ago. My old man was a collier at the pit, and a weedy little get he looked as well, though he was hard enough for the job, but not so hard that he didn't die of dust on the windpipe when I was ten. I remember going with my mother to the Co-op to get fitted up with a black suit, the first one, and I'd have been proud of it if I hadn't been up to my neck in salt tears for my father. My two brothers and a sister followed Mother out of that shop like a gaggle of black crows, and next day we went to the cemetery, with fifty-odd colliers who were mates of the old man. It was a sunny day in September, and I remember being shocked and feeling sick because I'd always been told that most people that died, died at the end of winter, and I thought God had done this to my old man out of spite, and from then on I told myself I'd have nothing to do with Him. Kid's talk, because it don't matter whether you think about Him or not. Makes no difference, so you might just as well set your brain on to other things if you've got any brain at all.