‘To cut a long story short, if she was a meal (and she was, I can tell you) I had a slap-up feed from it, because every time the plate emptied it was filled up again. It went on for months, so as far as that job went there was nothing lacking in it. What more could a young chap want? I had work, money, food, love, and shelter. I swear blind I’ve never had it so good since. And yet, I can’t think now how it was possible, but I got tired of her. From one day to the next I just didn’t go to her room. Something happened to me, and I don’t know what it was. I just closed up against her. I started going to Worksop more often, just to call home for half an hour in the evening. I’d have a pint at some pub, or a cup of tea somewhere, then walk the few miles back and crash into bed. I didn’t even meet another girl. Audrey tried to get me out of my mood, but found it was more solid than that, so she turned against me, and wouldn’t rest till she got me into trouble and saw the back of me.
‘This was difficult, because there was nothing in which she could fault me. I was, as they say, a man of sober habits who even, by now, liked walking around the house and looking at Percy’s paintings and sometimes dipping into his library when I got the chance. The old man was fond of dogs, and had a few slouching idly around the house. Now and again a red setter would follow us on our walks. Dogs are only valuable if they’re useful, but I had nothing special against them, even so. For his eighty-first birthday one of his great-grandchildren (no doubt thinking about his position in the will) sent him a Yorkshire terrier. The old man shed tears at this tender thought, and considered the dog to be his greatest treasure. In actual fact it was a bloody nuisance. It ran about and pissed all over everywhere and, worse still, took a strong dislike to me. It’s hard to say why, because I left it alone, and never so much as looked when it barked at me (and backed away) as I walked through the house to collect Percy for his outing.
‘One day it snapped at my ankle, and I thought: this has got to stop. I did nothing, but just walked on. Then I felt a rip at my flesh. Audrey Beacon was on her way by, but the pain was so sharp I let out a bloody good kick. I should have been man enough to ignore it, or just laugh, but I lost control, and the kick got it right on the arse. In fact the dog went skidding three-quarters of the way back up the corridor where it had come from. I suppose this might have been all right, but unluckily it let out a great yelp that echoed through the house. It was quite close to the room Whaplode was in. His deafness came and went, and this time he heard everything as clear as a bell. He called out as if he’d been stabbed, and I went in to see what was the matter. “The dog,” he cried. “What’s happened?”
‘I told him that I’d accidently stepped on it in passing, but he didn’t believe me, pulled the bell and went on roaring for the others. He threatened to sack everybody if he didn’t get to the bottom of it, but Audrey Beacon, as cool as a stone at the bottom of a stream, told him all she had seen. So I was ordered off the premises, Percy holding his pet dog, tears in his pot-eyes that didn’t look at me at all. I showed him the teeth marks on my leg and the rip in my trousers, but it made no difference. I walked from the place with four pounds in my pocket, on the lookout for something else to do.
‘I picked yesterday’s newspaper out of a litterbox and noticed that the war had started. It didn’t take me long to get a job. Luckily my driving licence came in handy because I got van work taking bread from a bakery to shops in the town. My family never wanted for it, because I dropped three or four prime loaves there every morning on my way by. The trouble was that I didn’t think. It still is, but my experience of the last few years has taught me a lot. The world’s got no use for people who don’t think. If you can’t think, then you can never be like they want you to be, and that’s no good, either for you or them. Maybe I’ll be able to steer a course between the two, and if I can do that, there might be no object to what I can get out of my life — in spite of myself.’
The sun warmed us. While he talked we smoked through my supply of fags. It was like listening to the radio, which I didn’t have because I’d left it with my mother. The car cruised at about forty, and Stamford was right behind. The morning was getting to its hind legs, and I was well and truly on my way, snapping the strings and ribbons one by one. I was glad they stretched such a long distance out with me, because as they broke each strand flew right back, giving the impression of being severed for ever. During the break in Bill Straw’s story, when he seemed to be gathering himself to tell more of it, which would no doubt increase the lines of his worried face because he was nearer to the end, I brooded on Claudine and how I still loved her. After all, she was going to have my child, and I decided to write a long and passionate letter when I got to London. I smiled at the thought that everything was going according to plan, the only trouble being I didn’t know whose plan it was, and I got brooding on this when suddenly the radiator blew up.
‘Pull in,’ Bill Straw shouted. I did so but, jumping out before him, lifted the bonnet to see how my lady did. ‘You’ve got no water,’ he said. ‘Burned up. Not a drop. Don’t you know the first thing about cars?’
‘She was full a couple of days ago,’ I said.
He had a hand clasped to his face: ‘Something’s wrong, then.’
‘Why don’t you ever tell me a bit of good news?’
‘I will when I’ve got some. You walk down the road for some water, and I’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘Just give me a fag to keep me company.’ I gave him the last out of my packet and set off.
After about a quarter of a mile a lorry passed me, and Bill Straw was waving and laughing from the cab. Then it was out of sight. That’s the last of him, I thought. Now I shan’t hear the end of his story. He’ll be in London soon, at that rate. Easy come, easy go. I suppose that’s what life is like on the road.
There was neither house nor filling station for another half-hour. I walked quickly, and the least exertion made me sweat, which was why I’d never taken to hard work, because I didn’t like to sweat. Not only did it smell, but it made me afraid that some vital part of me might melt away, if it ran too freely. But after a while walking became pleasant. I relaxed and slowed my pace, in spite of traffic pounding a few feet from my right elbow. Between such noise I heard birds and smelled the whiff of fields, and knew how free one might feel if there was no car to anchor your heart to its engine.
In the distance I saw someone walking towards me, and I would ask him where I could get water for my car. The face was familiar as he came close, and then I saw that it was Bill Straw carrying a jerrycan of water. ‘I thought you needed a walk,’ he said. ‘It’s no use sitting cramped up in that driving position for six or seven hours without stretching your legs. Makes you safer at the wheel. And it’s good for the liver. Come on, let’s water our horsepower.’
We walked back together. ‘I suppose you thought I’d left you?’ he said with a laugh, holding up twenty Player’s. ‘Here, have a fag to keep you company! I took them from the counter when his eyes were elsewhere. Don’t feel bad about it. You can pay him for ’em when we pass. I promised to take the can back, anyway. A very obliging bloke. If you need petrol we ought to buy a few gallons off him, just to show willing.’