A Man of his Time Page 3

  A passenger looked in for a seat but, unwilling to intrude on mutual and private grief, stepped down. A chink in the blind showed the train steaming along a valley, its whistle permitting them to do what they would, his only hope that no one else would try to get into the carriage.

  He secured the blinds, and put his lips to her warm forehead. Hers were moist with a kiss no man could resist, or care what was behind it. A hand around her neck, the other at her well-covered bosom, he took in the rich clean odour of hair, yet held back from going like a bull at a gate, the urge to be fast a sure sign that you must go slowly.

  She turned away, but a kiss at the nape of the neck always got them on the melt, Bible books in the portmanteau no defence for a woman’s flesh whose gander was up. A sudden leaning forward told him she knew it was too late to hold back, though any sign and he would have stepped up and asked her pardon. Men were rightly prosecuted for bothering women in trains, and the treadmill wasn’t for him.

  A sudden jerk and she crushed herself to him, saying softly: ‘Oh, do take me, then.’

  Not to accept her would be unmanly. He lifted her, a free hand drawing his raincoat from the rack to lay on the seat, using all his strength to let her down as if onto a bed of feathers. Clothed arms rustled around his neck, till the seat vibrated under her, carmine features contrasting with the black of mourning as she held out her arms.

  No more waiting, he bundled up the complication of skirts, and she drew him through smells of lavender and sweat to the greed of that vital place. All control was given up as if only now able to allow it after her husband’s death. He held back to match her eagerness but she was determined not to let him (which couldn’t be held against her) and spent more quickly even than Leah.

  An hour ago they hadn’t known each other, but she must have been half in death for it, the stars fixed that he would be the one to be drawn by her so completely. Glad that she had reason to be pleased with taking him as much as he had taken her, he was also amazed at a coupling of so few words, when with others he’d used many in his persuasions, Nottingham girls brazenly expecting them so as to save, he supposed, what they thought of as their modesty.

  Her smile could only be for the ironic twist to his lips while she went back to her status of bereaved woman. The handkerchief that had dried her tears was used to wipe between her legs, as he stood away to fix his buttons. She held out her hand when he moved to put the soiled handkerchief into his bag of tools, demanding it for her reticule, then arranged her dress and sat down. He fetched out a clean one, blessing his mother who had ironed it so well. He looked into her eyes to let her know she deserved more than had been given. Flicking up the blind he was surprised that the world was still the same, yet thinking that if this was travelling by train he wouldn’t mind doing a bit more.

  She shaded her eyes as if daylight was too much for them. ‘We’re close to Pontypool.’

  Needing to smoke, he took out a packet of Robins, lit one, and dropped the spent match on the floor. He moved to touch her, at the flush knew she wanted him to, but there was only time for a press of hands. ‘I’ll see you walking the street at Newbridge, if I can get out a bit from my work.’

  ‘My sister’s husband is a Methodist minister, which is why I came third-class. The Good Lord doesn’t like waste.’

  ‘They’ll keep you locked up, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  She arranged her mantle. ‘I’m a widow, so I can walk out on my own.’

  ‘I shall look for you.’ I could marry her, if I wanted the bother of courting, take an armful of blooms to meet her in-laws, and make them think I’m somebody I’m not. ‘What’s your name?’

  She tied the strings of her bonnet. ‘I’m Mrs Dyslin.’

  That wasn’t good enough. ‘And who’s she when she’s at table?’

  ‘Minnie.’

  A pretty name. He had given his already, but didn’t want her to forget. ‘I’m Ernest Burton, blacksmith. My brother has a forge near Tredegar Junction.’

  ‘That’s close to my sister’s.’

  ‘So I might see you.’

  She sat as if never wanting to leave. ‘I feel better than I did an hour ago.’

  ‘I’m glad. And I’m sorry for your loss, but you’ve got to go on living, whatever happens, that’s all I know.’ He was surprised at offering so many words of consolation. Well, he could talk when he wanted to.

  ‘You’re a young man.’

  ‘I’m twenty-one, and that’s not young. Not in my line it isn’t.’ She must be a few years older, but it wasn’t right to ask a woman’s age. Not that it mattered, as long as you gave her what she wanted.

  ‘I’m going to be the housekeeper at my sister’s, because she’s ailing much of the time. That’s all I can do with my life from now on, though there is a small annuity in my name. My sister has been married ten years, and has four children. Two are young, so I can teach them their letters, make myself useful in whatever way I can. Frank, he’s the minister, will be grateful if I arrange everything to do with the household, I know, which will help me forget my troubles.’

  Maybe she’d have a child after what they had done, people thinking that the last act of a dutiful husband had been to lie with her, the timing more or less right. His smile brought one back, a rose opening under the warmth of summer, happiness that would need concealing once she got to where she was going.

  The train squeaked alongside the platform at Pontypool Road station, and he reached for her bag, noting how much livelier and more attractive she was after what they had done, back in the world of the much desired where he hoped she would stay, because a woman can look beautiful at any age as long as loving spunk is pumped into her which goes straight to the eyes and makes them glitter with the come-on of a peahen everybody likes to see. There’s only one way to please a woman, and if another woman guesses what it is, I’ll please her as well. Minnie’s brother-in-law expects her to look sad in her black, so I hope he doesn’t wonder what she’s been up to.

  He set their bags on the platform, held a hand for her to step down. George would twit him half to death if he could see him acting the cavalier.

  ‘The platform’s over there,’ she said on seeing him hesitate. ‘The notice says so.’

  ‘Ah, so it does.’ He kept a footstep behind, something against his habit, since a woman’s place was to walk after the man. When the train set off she was blawting again. Her husband had died three weeks ago, and she was crying because things would seem strange at her sister’s, till she got used to it. Women often cried for less, so he spared another handkerchief to mop the salty waters, feeling in some way responsible for her.

  Two long pools flashed by, furnaces and collieries scattered over the valley. A train puffed and billied up a hillside among scarves of smoke. ‘At least you’ve got a sister to go to, and you’ll be all right once you get there. A family is all a person needs.’

  She stopped crying. ‘It’s not that.’

  He leaned forward to touch her warm cheek. ‘If her husband gets on to you, and makes your life miserable, I’ll have a word with him.’ He showed his fist, hard and worn with work. ‘I’ll look after you.’

  She was shocked. Didn’t all women want protection from bullies? ‘It’s not that,’ she said. ‘It’s that I would like to see you again sometime.’

  ‘And so you shall.’ He was gratified, though not sure it would be possible because George would have him slaving all the hours God sent. ‘Write your address so that I shall know where to find you.’

  She took a silver pencil and small pad of paper from her reticule.

  ‘And if you want to find me, send a note to the post office at Pontllanfraith,’ where George called for his letters. ‘That’ll find me.’

  He slipped the note into his lapel pocket, looked at woods to either side of the track. ‘It’ll be the second stop after this,’ she said. ‘My brother-in-law told me in his letter that he would meet me with his pony and trap.’

  The departu
re kiss was as if they were married, or at any rate as if he ought to marry her, though he scoffed at the notion. Her embrace was so passionate because of the loss of her husband, and maybe even of him. It could not be prolonged, though the look of tenderness pleased him. ‘I’ll put your bag on the platform.’

  His tall figure leaned from the carriage window watching the brother-in-law greet her with uplifted hat, a slender middle-aged man whose smile was nowhere close to his face, a Stephen Meagrim in a Bible-black garb almost as deep as her own.

  Glad to be by himself, he sat opposite a man and woman who fixed him as if knowing he couldn’t be of the area. The man was probably a farmer, and the bedraggled woman one you might see on a winter’s day trudging towards the workhouse. But they smiled, and wished him good afternoon.

  Another cutting of green and shale, and the train stopped. The first thought as he stepped down was to slake the windpipe, but he must let George know he had arrived. He looked north, east, south and west and along the lane wondering where the forge could be, feeling more alone than he liked now that Minnie had gone. Seeing a ragged man covered in coal dust, as if he had just crawled out of the earth, he asked the way to the forge.

  Teeth showed white when he smiled, Ernest barely understanding the singsong response, but waving hands gave the direction, and he walked towards houses on the main road.

  The sky was cloudless, air sweet, a sun still high enough to warm the ripening hedges, a couple of larks arguing as if their wings were lips. It was good to be alive and on his own in a foreign country. Coal smoke tangled faintly at a change of wind as he put down his bags to light a cigarette. He would have plenty of work from now on, knowing George.

  THREE

  The forge was a small building of neat red brick and slate roof on its own at the end of a lane. A field behind sloped up to a line of trees that marked the track of a railway, lifting beyond to a skyline of villa-type houses.

  George, leather-aproned and fire tongs in hand, stood at the door, looked more surprised than welcoming at his brother’s appearance. Willie, the bearded shortarsed striker holding a shoeing hammer, called in a squeaky voice: ‘I could tell it was you a mile off. Master Burton asked me to keep an eye open. You walk just like him, as if you owned the world!’

  ‘Shut up, you daft old bogger.’ No blacksmith suffered fools gladly.

  ‘You’ve come, then,’ George said.

  Ernest didn’t suffer fools at all, so made no answer. None was needed. Everybody could see that here he was.

  ‘I’ll shut the place up in a bit,’ George said, ‘then we’ll wet our whistles at the Mason’s Arms. I expect you’re ready for one. I know I am.’

  ‘What about my tool bag?’

  ‘Keep it here. It’ll be safe.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘You don’t trust anybody, do you?’

  No answer was needed to that, either. Not even his brother, if it came to that.

  ‘Anyway,’ George swung the big doors to, after Ernest had taken the bags inside, ‘there’s plenty of work for both of us. I’ll set you on straightaway in the morning. There’s a chain to make, and a few scythes to sharpen, for a start.’

  The bar room was full, men at their pipes and pots before going home, such a gabble Ernest couldn’t pick out a word, a pint sliding down like an eggtimer with the bottom ripped out, which stayed his hunger. ‘You can sleep on the floor tonight,’ George bawled, ‘and tomorrow we’ll fix you up with Mrs Jones. She’ll lodge you for twelve-and-six a week. And her husband’s a miner, so don’t think you can get away with anything. They’re God-fearing people who go to chapel every Sunday.’

  ‘Can’t we share your room, and I’ll pay half? What do I need one for myself for?’

  ‘You can for me.’

  The floor was better than a bed too short to stretch on. He suffered now and again with twinges of cramp, as did many blacksmiths because of too much sweating, and even large intakes of salt didn’t help. ‘We’ll go, after this,’ George said, on his second jar. ‘I’ve got to save the pence so’s I can send a florin or two back to Sarah. Six young ‘uns are a lot to feed. Did you see ’em before you left?’

  ‘They were in bed when I called. Except Sarah. She was at the washtub.’ At forty she looked an old woman. No man should leave his wife after they were married. ‘She wondered when you’d be coming home.’

  ‘I’ll send another money order, then she can stop wondering.’

  ‘It’s a hard life for her.’

  George’s Adam’s apple worked down the last drop of ale. ‘It is for me, as well.’

  Nothing more to be said, Ernest followed him to the door. Clouds rushed from somewhere and brought a drift of rain, but the air was fresh and sweet, a few stars showing as they tramped along the rough clinker-covered road, potholed and worn from the traffic of drays and wagons. You had to take care where you put your feet. Ernest filled one of the holes with a long piss. Pictures closed in from the day’s trip and his encounter with Minnie, her forlorn goodlooking features less clear now than those he had left her with, the memory of her warm arms such that cheeky John Thomas chafed at his trousers.

  Lights showed faintly from farms and cottages on the hillsides, trains whistling from all directions. Dimly-lamped drovers’ carts trundled towards the red and coppery sky.

  ‘It’s always busy round here.’ George didn’t find it easy to keep up with Ernest who, descending to a crossroads, noted the post office. A left turn beyond a narrow river took them by another public house into a street of raw houses, and faint odours of iron and sulphur.

  George’s room was small but neat, his best suit covered in brown paper on the back of the door, shaving materials laid out on the fireplace shelf before an oval mirror with a brown stain in the middle. Seeing the single bed, Ernest didn’t have to wonder where he would sleep, though unsure that any man could do so with the clink of bottles, shrieks, and breaks into song from next door. ‘Is somebody getting married? Or are they just back from a funeral?’

  ‘It’s like that often.’ George put a match to the fire laid before setting out for work that morning, and took off his jacket and belt. ‘But you can’t tell ’em to be quiet. They’re Bible-backed Taffies, and like a drink now and again. It’s live and let live around here.’ He took a loaf and two plates from a cupboard on the wall. ‘The bread’s a bit hard, but it’ll have to do. The bacon’s good, though, and there’s a bottle of ale each. A Hebrew pedlar comes from Newport, so I got a couple of penny bloaters. He’s an obliging chap. Anything else you want and he’ll bring it up on his cart.’

  They sat on the bed and, with the remains of what their mother had packed, ate fish, meat, and cheese by the light of a candle in front of the mirror. An argument from next door, as if the walls were made of cardboard, caused Ernest to look up. ‘People have got to sleep after their work.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with us,’ George told him. ‘Work is what I want to talk to you about. If you’re lucky you’ll earn a guinea a week, maybe more at times. We get farmers’ trade, and the odd thing or two from the pit or railway. If you aren’t lucky you might draw less than a quid, but you’ll be better off than at home. Our work’s got a good reputation, and people know where to come.’

  Ernest was willing to work if he could put the odd shilling by for when he got back to Nottingham. ‘Everything’s arranged, then?’

  ‘As much as I can make it. I’m not God. Anyway, we’d better look to our sleep. We need to be up by five.’

  Ernest took the suit from his bag and smoothed out the creases, hanging it behind George’s on the door. The inability to hear his brother’s words may have been no bad thing at times, but was not to be tolerated now.

  George noted the direction of his gaze. ‘You might have the key to the door at home, but you don’t have it here, so leave them alone. They’ll be done in an hour. It don’t bother me. I can sleep through anything.’

  A man’s head slamming against the party
wall was followed by a cascade of cheering. ‘Doesn’t the landlady put in a word?’

  ‘She daren’t, I think.’

  He took off his neckcloth and, before George could tell him not to be such a fool, set off across the landing. His shins caught a large iron bucket which, going by the stink, was for use should anyone feel a call in the night. Punching the door open, he bent slightly to get through.

  Such a pack of scruffy dwarfs he had never seen. He with the banged head sat on a box, pressing his temples as if to hold in whatever bit of brain lay between. Another man with uptilted bottle was getting rid of the beer quite nicely, while a third who was lighting his pipe by the fireplace asked what Ernest interpreted to be: ‘What might you want?’

  ‘I’m from next door.’ He spoke in as reasonable a voice as could be mustered. ‘We’ve got to be up before five, and want to get some sleep.’ He stood a moment, to be sure his message was understood. ‘So I’d be obliged if you’d make less noise.’

  Thinking he could safely turn, a bottle hit the lintel by his head with the force of a shotgun. Thanking God they were half-drunk, he faced them again. ‘Any more of that, and I’ll lay you all out.’ He was ready, but no one came for him. ‘All I ask is that you keep a bit quieter.’

  ‘You’d better sleep in your clothes,’ George said when he closed the door. ‘It gets cold around here, even in May. There’s a bit of blood on your cheek.’

  ‘It’ll dry.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t have it all your own way.’ George sometimes disliked the sort of person his brother had turned into, who at times seemed reckless and needed watching. He was young, and just didn’t think, though whether he would ever be capable of that he wouldn’t like to prophesy. ‘It’s all right threatening violence but you’ve got to think well beforehand, and not do it out of temper.’