Saturday Night and Sunday Morning Read online

  Robboe went chuntering on: ‘When I first started here I went home on a Friday night with seven-and-tuppence in my pocket. And now look at you. Fourteen quid. It’s a fortune.’

  ‘That’s what yo’ think. In them days yer could get a packet o’ fags for tuppence, and a pint of ale for threepence. And just look at what the sods do to me’ — he held up his wage-packet and read: ‘“Income Tax, two pounds eighteen and a tanner.” It ain’t right. That’s munney I’ve earned. I know what I’d like to do wi’ ‘em.’

  ‘You can’t blame the firm for that, though,’ Robboe said, lighting a cigarette now that he was at the end of his work. ‘You shouldn’t grab so much.’

  ‘Grab be boggered. I earn it. Every penny on it. You can’t deny that.’

  Robboe had a genuine respect for hard work. ‘I’m not saying you don’t. But just keep it quiet. I wouldn’t like anybody to know what you’re taking home. They’d all be at my throat asking for a wage raise. Then I’d get my cards, I can tell you.’

  He walked away, and Arthur slipped the wage-packet into his overall pocket. Truce time was over. The enemy’s scout was no longer near. For such was Robboe’s label in Arthur’s mind, a policy passed on by his father. Though no strong cause for open belligerence existed as in the bad days talked about, it persisted for more subtle reasons that could hardly be understood but were nevertheless felt, and Friday afternoon was a time when different species met beneath white flags, with wage-packets as mediators, when those who worked in the factory were handed proof of their worth, which had increased considerably in market value since the above-mentioned cat-and-dog ideas had with reason taken root.

  When the light flashed at half-past five Arthur joined the thousands that poured out through the factory gates. The sun was pale and weak, barely shining in the chill April air. He walked without thinking towards home, and caught up with his father as he turned in by the yard-end. The round full face of Mrs Bull, the flattened nose, thin wide lips, and short greying hair, made a permanent gargoyle at the yard-end, a sardonic fixture familiar to everybody that passed. She lived in one of the terrace houses, nearer the factory, and stood waiting for her bricklayer husband, to snatch the wage-packet from his hand, Arthur thought, and at the same time to watch the factory turn out, something she never grew tired of doing.

  Arthur and his father walked via the scullery into the living-room, where a hundred-watt bulb burned from the ceiling. Five people sat in the small room, and Margaret moved her chair back from the fire as Arthur hung up his coat before taking his place at the table. William stood by her knee, a legginged and pom-pom hatted five-year-old who shouted out: ‘Hey-up, Uncle Arthur. Hey-up, Grandad,’ as they came in. The mother laid a special pay-day treat of bacon-and-beans before them.

  ‘I can see yer’ve mashed, Vera,’ Seaton said fussily. ‘It’s pay-night, yer know!’

  ‘Why,’ she said, ‘you cheeky sod. I mash every night for you. I know yer’d go mad without yer cup o’ tea.’ They never touched a bit until two cups stood emptied by their unwashed hands.

  ‘Now then Vera, my ducks, don’t get like that,’ he called out, bending over his plate and intently scooping up beans with a fork. She stood by the mantelpiece watching them eat, and after a few minutes’ reflection walked to the table and cut two thick slices of bread, saying: ‘This’ll fill you up.’

  Margaret sat dreamily by the fire, a young full-busted woman of twenty-nine. William fidgeted on her knee, trying to sing a song, stopping to puzzle over the meaning of Arthur’s loudly thrown-out statements, and finding them always indecipherable, went back to his song, glancing under the table from time to time to make sure that neither Arthur nor his grandfather accidentally put their feet on his red-painted toy wagon. Arthur took him from Margaret’s knee, lifted him up, and settled him firmly on to his own.

  ‘Now then, yer little bogger, let me tell yer a story.’ He accentuated his gruff voice. ‘Once upon a time — sit still then, or I wain’t tell yer. Tek yer fingers out o’ my tea — there was a bad man who lived in a dark wood, in a gret big castle, wi’ water drippin’ down the walls, and spider-webs as big as eiderdowns in every corner, winders that creaked and trapdoors everywhere that swallered people up if they made a false move …’

  Margaret interrupted him. ‘All right then, our Arthur, you’ll frighten the poor little bogger to death.’

  ‘No, he’s enjoyin’ it, aren’t yer, old Bill?’ William looked at him, waiting for more. ‘Well, this man’s name was Boris Karloff. He was a mad doctor who looked after thousands of vampire bats that ripped people’s throats out every night as they walked through pitch-black woods and swampy fields. Because, yer see, this doctor, Boris, let vampire bats out every night, and from his castle walls he could hear people screamin’ as these bats got to work. He used to stand on a tower, laughin’ an’ showin’ ‘is fangs as he chewed up a couple o’ kids for supper.’ Arthur made weird sounds with his throat. ‘An’ one night he was in his laborat’ry, among all his glass bottles with shrunk ‘eads in ’em, when all of a sudden …’ William looked at him with full white eyes, hands curling and uncurling near an empty plate, his face round and pale, his lips parting wider and wider as the story unfolded.

  ‘Well,’ Arthur suddenly jerked back at the climax, and everyone in the room, having stopped talking to listen, twitched at the word, ‘it was the Devil who had come to visit him. They were great pals, you see, and after they talked about murder, and how to get rid of bodies at six bob a hundred …’

  Margaret drew the line at the Devil, and sprang out of her reverie: ‘He’ll think ye’r talking about his father,’ she said tearfully, taking William, who looked relieved, back on to her knee. ‘You’ll frighten the life out on him, wain’t he, Bill?’

  ‘Has he bin on to you again?’ Arthur questioned.

  There was an awkward tension in the room.

  ‘He’s allus on,’ the mother said, a voice of hatred and accusation. ‘She’s sleeping here tonight, away from the drunken swine.’

  ‘I’ll drop him one, one day,’ Arthur promised. Yes, he thought, it’s bad luck when you marry a man that drinks too much and knocks you around. One day though, he’ll get it. He’ll get killed at the pit, I hope. He took the clean wage-packet from his overall pocket and passed three pound notes to his mother. ‘Here yer are, my board, mam.’

  ‘Thanks, Arthur, my owd duck.’

  William observed the crossing of the pound notes, saw them with glinting eyes, already knowing what they meant — sweets, bus fare, biscuits, endless rides on the Goose Fair — hanging idly from Arthur’s fingers, then taken up into his grandmother’s hand. His mouth opened at the pricelessness of it, at the vital Friday-night transaction going on before him, a stupefying amount of money swinging in all its power and glory over the table.

  Arthur saw his excitement. ‘Look at the young bogger,’ he called out. ‘Peein’ ‘issen to see it. You’d better keep your hairgrips locked up, our Margaret, or else he’ll be opening the gas meter for all them shillin’s.’

  ‘He won’t do no such thing,’ she exclaimed, ‘unless yo’ put ideas into his head, stupid sod.’

  Arthur took a five-pound note from his wage-packet. William stood at the table, his nose resting on the rim, his small hands gripping the tablecloth. Arthur dangled the note before him: ‘Here yer are, Bill, run to Taylor’s and get some Dolly Mixtures.’

  William trembled, saw a multi-coloured mountain of Dolly Mixtures swaying and swimming before his eyes, an insane yet accepted exchange for a bit of crinkly black-and-white paper, such a piece as had paid the down-payment on his mother’s washing-machine that morning. His eyes swung towards the watching faces, then turned slowly back to Arthur’s hand that moved the note pendulum-fashion above him. He snatched for it, and missed. In his mind, while everyone laughed at his failure, and Arthur went on waving the money slowly, he made allowance for its angle of movement.

  His arm went up and down like a piston, and clutched
the note. He feverishly rattled the back-door latch, and in a second was running up the yard before anyone could stop him, gripping the five-pound note.

  ‘Serves yer right,’ the mother screamed at Arthur, holding her heart from the shock.

  Arthur reached the door, and chased the losses of his playfulness. A few strides of his long legs took him outside, after William who was toddling doggedly through the dusk a few yards in front, swaying slightly in his hampering leggings.

  ‘Bill!’ Arthur cried. ‘Come back, you sod!’

  The house behind was an uproar of laughter.

  ‘Come back wi’ that fiver and I’ll gi’ yer a tanner!’

  William turned the corner into the street, running towards the shop, his steel-capped shoes clicking on the pavement, his breath going like a traction engine as he tightened his grip on the money.

  Arthur caught him around the waist and picked him up, kissed him on the cheeks while removing the note from his now relaxed fingers. ‘Run off wi’ my fiver would you, young boggerlugs? My ‘ard-earned lolly. A fiver’s worth o’ Dolly Mixtures! Christ Almighty! You’d a made yoursen sick, I’m sure you would!’

  William’s young brain had known all the time that it was only a game, that you could not snatch a five-pound note and hope to achieve your goal of buying a mountain of sweets with it. So instead of weeping he threw his arms around Arthur’s neck, loving his rich uncle who came from the towering world of work and sent pound notes across the dazzling air of the Friday-night kitchen. Arthur carried him to the shop, pushed his way towards the door where children, flushed with issues of spending money, shouted and played excitedly.

  ‘We’s’ll see’f Taylors’ ‘ave some tuffeys, shall we? But you’re a bit of a lead weight, our Bill. What does Margaret feed you on? Cannon-balls? Ye’r a ton-weight, and no mistake. The tuffeys wain’t mek yer any lighter. I do know that!’

  Treading on the bell, he carried plump William into the shop. Several women were paying weekly bills. They’ve all got TV’s, Arthur thought, but they still get grub on tick. William looked at the jars, his blue eyes roaming slowly, his flat nose sniffing delectable peppermint and ham odours rising from the counter.

  ‘What goo buy me, Unc Arf?’

  ‘If yer a good lad I’ll buy yer three pennorth o’ caramels,’ he said, setting him down on the floor. The five-pound note went back in his trousers pocket, and he sorted through a handful of small change for pennies. William clutched the caramels and pocketed the sixpence, and Arthur carried him shoulder-high back to the house.

  Arthur washed loudly in the scullery, swilling waves of warm soapy water over his chest and face, blundering his way back to the fire to dry himself. Upstairs he flung his greasy overalls aside and selected a suit from a line of hangers. Brown paper protected them from dust, and he stood for some minutes in the cold, digging his hands into pockets and turning back lapels, sampling the good hundred pounds’ worth of property hanging from an iron-bar. These were his riches, and he told himself that money paid-out on clothes was a sensible investment because it made him feel good as well as look good. He took a shirt from another series of hangers near the window and slipped it over his soiled underwear, fastening the buttons and pursing his lips in a whistle that made a shrill split in the room’s silence.

  A soft drizzling rain fell as he hurried to the bus stop. Cleanshaven and smart, fair hair short on top and weighed-down with undue length at the back sent out a whiff of hair cream. From below the overcoat came narrow-bottomed trousers, falling with good creases to the tops of black, shining square-toed shoes. His tall frame was slightly round-shouldered from stooping day in and day out at his lathe, but all memory of work had gone from him as, with head down in the darkness, and tramping shoes making a distinct sound on the wet pavement, he crossed the wide road to join a bus queue.

  He sat on the top deck and smoked a cigarette. The trolleybus pulled itself up the road, and he handed out money for his ticket. The stink of a man’s pipe drifted from a nearby seat, and he drove it away with a noisy blast of air. People shouldn’t be allowed to smoke pipes, he thought. Pipe-smoking men are a menace, to themselves as well as to everybody else. Though if you start going out with a woman whose husband smokes a pipe, you’re sure to be on a good thing, because pipe-smoking husbands are the slowest in the world, the easiest of all to do the dirty on. Like Joyce’s husband five years ago. They just puff their hubble-bubbles all day long like a baby sucking a dummy, and don’t think about anybody else. They’re too selfish to bother with wives, and that’s where blokes like me step in.

  He was ten minutes early, and saw himself waiting a long time for Brenda, but she was already standing in the shadow of the public house. It was four days since they had met, and a multitude of different hours had passed slowly for each of them. A smash of skittles sounded from behind the pub lights. You could never tell what mood she would be in, he cogitated, or what mood I’m going to be in after she’s either got funny or laughed. He took her hand, but she drew it away, saying with a frown: ‘Don’t let’s hang around. Let’s get going somewhere.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ he wondered.

  They walked slowly along the Ropewalk, into a quiet, ill-lit district of hospitals and doctors’ houses. There was a smell of trees and bushes, and over a low wall the Park mansions built by last-century lace manufacturers stood unlighted in a vale of gloom, with the vari-coloured lights of a marshalling yard beyond.

  Arthur knew she was worried even before she spoke. Something is up, he told himself. He felt the agony of her worry clinging about them, thick and tangible.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s up?’ He stopped her and, seeing her pale blue blouse showing through her coat, began to fasten it: one, two, three, four large brown buttons. ‘Pull up your collar as well,’ he ordered.

  ‘You make too much fuss,’ she said.

  He put his arms around her and kissed her. ‘You’re all right, Brenda,’ he said. ‘I like you a lot.’ She was handsome because for some reason she was afraid. Then the muscles of her face relaxed and the glow of her soft features was framed and accentuated by an aureole of silence backed by the sound of the city. ‘Why don’t you tell me what’s up then, duck?’

  Her face hardened. She turned away. ‘The same old story,’ she cried.

  He didn’t understand. She never told him outright what was the matter, as if to do so directly would inflame the wound. Perhaps she hoped that by coming upon it in a roundabout way she would not anger those fates that had the power to confirm the fact that something was wrong, or make whatever it was even worse.

  ‘What old story?’ he demanded. ‘We’ve had so many old stories lately.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if you want to know, I’m pregnant, good and proper this time.’

  He wanted to say: So what? What does it matter if you are? You’re married, aren’t you? So what’s the odds? It ain’t as if you was a young girl.

  ‘And it’s your fault,’ she said acrimoniously. ‘You never will take any care when we’re doing it. You just don’t bother. I allus said this would happen one day.’

  ‘It’s bound to be my fault,’ he said with sharp irony. ‘Everything’s my fault. I know that.’ What a wonderful Friday night! Yet if it wasn’t one thing, it was another. ‘I can’t see yer swellin’ up yet,’ he said.

  ‘You’re barmy,’ she retorted. ‘That doesn’t happen for ages.’

  ‘Then how do you know?’ There was always a chance that she was wrong, that she didn’t know what she was talking about. Hope to the very end, he told himself, even when you’ve slipped into the fires of Hell and the flames are searing your guts.

  ‘You’ll never believe owt, will you, Arthur?’ she cried. ‘I suppose you have to see the kid before you believe me?’ She stopped by the wall. It rained no longer, and they looked at the distant lights.

  ‘But how do you know?’ he insisted.

  ‘Because I’m twelve days late. That means it’s d
ead sure.’

  ‘Nothing’s dead sure,’ he said.

  ‘But this is.’

  He knew she was right. Had it not been certain she would be weeping and hysterical with hope. He could tell by her voice that she was resigned to it. Hope had failed in the last few days, and she had become fatalistic.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘what shall we do?’ She wants me to feel guilty about it, but I don’t feel bad at all. It’s an act of God, like a pit disaster. I should have been careful, I suppose, but what’s the good o’ going wi’ a married woman if you’ve got to use a frenchie? They spoil everything. Then he thought of something else. He was brutal and exultant: ‘How do you know it’s mine?’

  She pulled her arm away and thumped him. ‘Why? Don’t you want to take the blame? Are you backing out now?’

  ‘What blame? There’s no blame on me. Only I just wondered whether it’s mine. It’s not forced to be, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘it’s yourn right enough. I haven’t done owt like that wi’ Jack for a couple o’ months or more.’

  I’ll tek that wi’ a dose o’ salts, he thought. Yet you never know. ‘What shall we do, then?’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t want it, I can tell you that.’

  ‘Have yer tried owt yet? Took owt, I mean?’

  ‘Some pills, but they didn’t work. Thirty-five bob they cost me. I hadn’t got it, but I borrowed it from Em’ler, one of my old work-mates. Right down the drain though.’

  He took two crumpled pound notes from his pocket and folded her hand over them. She thrust them back: ‘That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.’

  But he dipped his hand into her pocket and left them there. ‘I know it ain’t, but keep ‘em anyway.’ He cursed out loud, both because he wanted her to think he was suffering with her, and to force himself into an unhappy mood. It was Friday night, and being so fixed into contentment by that fact alone, a major tragedy or a ton of dynamite was needed to blast him out of it.