Slipping on the cobbles near the Trip to Jerusalem he thumped Archie in the ribs out of happiness at not going down, and got like treatment on the rebound for what deep-buried reason neither could say. An old man with a blind drunk glitter in his eyes and spluttering into his ale at the bar called to his mate above the din: ‘We beat the fuckers. Oh yes, we beat the fuckers. Didn’t we Alf?’
‘Yeh,’ Alf said, ‘but they’ll be at it again in twenty years.’
‘No they won’t,’ the old man said. Bert had never seen a pint go so quick. ‘Not this time they won’t.’
To the tune of ‘Coming Round the Mountain’ (and she’ll be wearing camiknickers when she comes) Bert took a wet-gin kiss from a woman old enough, he thought, to be Mrs Denman’s grandmother. ‘That’s for you, my lovely handsome duck,’ she said.
‘Yer’ve clicked,’ Archie laughed.
‘Course he’s clicked,’ she screamed at them with a laugh, huddling back against her smiling husband.
‘Let’s run, Bert, or she’ll ’ave us both.’
‘She will, an’ all,’ her husband laughed.
In the Royal Children a girl shoved a full pint at Herbert through the fug saying she’d bought it for her bloke but he’d nipped out to heave his guts up, and what a shame it would be to waste it. The cold slurry went down too quickly, and after a further jar in the Rose of England Herbert also ran out to the back yard and threw up as if all the weary years at school were fighting pell-mell to get from his system.
Archie led him the shortest way back to his digs, Bert hardly aware of passing streets. They sang their way up the steps into Mrs Denman’s impeccable parlour, from which place she hurried them into the kitchen. Bert screwed a knuckle into his eyes for clarity. A tall thin man with greying hair was introduced by Mrs Denman as Frank, her Frank, her own especial Frank (she’d had one or two as well), Frank of about forty who, the only one sober because he’d had to stay on at work doing maintenance, suggested Bert be roped to a pit prop, first to stop him falling on his face, and then to shoulder him up to bed.
‘It’s the best place for him,’ Mrs Denman said. ‘Poor lad’s as white as chalk. He ain’t used to it. I wouldn’t trust him to keep even a cup of coffee down in that state, nor yo’, either,’ she said, turning on Archie. ‘So gerrof home and let us look after him.’
Archie laughed — and belched. ‘All right, ma. You don’t need to tell me twice.’
Such speech was perfectly clear to understand, and Herbert didn’t seem one bit drunk, though realized that the slightest wind would blow him down. All he wanted to know was how much sleeping time there was between the coming collapse and getting back to his lathe. The wall clock wouldn’t tell him, one hand moving slowly rightward, while the angle between the two increased until his forehead hit the floor, mocked on his way down by the strident laugh of Bacchus, which seemed to come from himself, though also from those looking on.
‘Ah Beryl,’ and Herbert barely heard Frank’s words, ‘let’s stomp up the wooden hill as well. You can’t blame ’im, though. He won’t have owt else to celebrate like this again in his lifetime. They’ll be no more o’ them concentration camps. Worn’t it terrible?’
‘Them pictures,’ Mrs Denman said.
From his laid-out state in front of the fender Herbert told himself how nice were Mrs Denman’s shapely legs — Beryl, as Frank called her, then felt hands under his armpits and knew he had better co-operate in standing so that they could get him to where he most wanted to be.
Archie, as if undecided about switching on his machine, came over and bellowed: ‘How yer feeling after last night then, Bert?’
Herbert’s head rang like a month of Sunday mornings, his feet felt shoeless and half buried in broken glass, a band of nails gripped around his waist, and his mouth tasted as if he’d swallowed a tramp’s overcoat. ‘Never felt better.’
Archie drew his lips into a smile, and gave him the hundred-year look — as if he had been to the same Understatement College, and considered it a disgrace not to hold himself upright no matter how much booze he had guzzled.
There were moments when Herbert felt that he had always been a workman. Or was he imagining it only in the face of overwhelming reality? It was certainly a soft and easy life compared to his previous existence. A workman lived without heartache as long as his wage packet came comfortably padded on Friday afternoon. Mr Thomas the history teacher used to maunder on about their sufferings, saying how much better it would be if nobody had to slave in ‘dark satanic mills’ and live in dismal slums that threatened to strangle the beauties of England with their brick and mortar tentacles. But Herbert liked the glow of homeliness in the streets, the beer-smelling fagstink of friendly pubs, and the mateyness of the blokes at work. He was captivated by the logic of machinery, of how its many parts worked, fascinated by the certainty of construction and the usefulness of its application. By the end of the working day his dream state was dominated by cog wheels, ratchets and pulleys, which reminded him of his mother talking engine terms with his father when the car used to conk out in India.
His expertise at mechanics was widened when Sarah, a large-bosomed blonde who operated a milling machine, turned pale one morning and, overcome by dizziness, was advised by the toolsetter to go home.
‘Must ’ave bin the flu,’ Herbert said at tea break.
‘I’ll bet it’s her monthlies,’ was Archie’s opinion. ‘Not that it’d put me off. I’d swim through her lovely blood any day.’
Herbert felt disgust at this vivid picture, though was called on to laugh: ‘Ah, I would, as well.’
He was shown how to operate Rachel’s machine, and then told to get on with it. It was necessary to stand back and rehearse the motions, having memorized a cinematic picture of his cursory lesson. The first dozen were slow to make, but throughout the afternoon he built up speed, and turned out so many aluminium elbows in the next few days that when Rachel came back her absence on the production line hadn’t been missed. ‘If you stay here much longer,’ the chargehand said, ‘you’ll be doing my job as well.’
Bert knew when he was being flattered. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be joining up soon.’
‘Thank God for that,’ he laughed, walking away.
Mrs Denman came into his room with a starched and ironed shirt in one hand, and clean underwear in the other. She slotted it neatly into a carrier bag with his folded suit, and stood by the door as if he might forget to take it to the public baths. He was trying to get the grime out of his fingernails. The other lodgers called her ‘Ma’, so why not him? ‘Thanks, Ma.’
She stood by the door. ‘I expect you’ll be going out tonight?’
On Saturday afternoons he went to the baths and hoped he came back looking different. For a few pennies everybody who needed to could get clean. ‘Ye’, I’ve got a date.’
‘I expected as much.’
He didn’t know what she was waiting for. ‘By the lions, at the Council House.’
‘You’re a nice lad, Bert.’
He smiled. Never been called that before. He liked it, from her. ‘Don’t you reckon Archie is, as well?’
She held his hand, but let it go in a moment. ‘He was made brick by brick, though, and you just grew tall on your own.’
She was in a strange mood. ‘Is Frank calling tonight?’
He wondered what he’d said wrong when she answered: ‘What’s that got to do with it?’