(5/20)Over the Gate (21 page)

I said I did. St Patrick's clock began to strike eleven, and my visitor cocked an eye at me.

'Suppose I'd best be getting along,' he said, but with a questioning inflection. 'You must be busy.'

This was the opportunity which I should have seized, but it was so warm that I dallied. I knew that I ought to take my basket and go shopping. There were bedrooms to dust, and a salad to prepare. There were two telephone calls to make and the laundry to sort out.

Let all these things wait, I decided.

'I'm not particularly busy,' I replied.

'Well, I'll have another five minutes, if you're sure,' said my visitor, propping himself against a handy tree. 'It's good to 'ave a bit of a chin-wag. I must say I've been a bit lonely since Thursday.' He checked suddenly, and then resumed in a quieter vein.

'Thursday!' he said slowly, as if talking to himself. 'It seems weeks ago! A different life-that's what it seems! Eh, a lot's happened to me since this time last week. Funny, ain't it, the way you go on, year after year, in the same of rut, and then, suddenly—phut? Everything's changed. You find yourself starting all over again. Queer, how things 'appen. If you're sure you're not busy, miss, I'll tell you about it.'

I assured him that I had all the time in the world, stretched my legs into the sunshine, and gave him my attention.

***

The year that Dusty Miller went to Weymouth, it appeared, his old brother-in-arms, Alf, got married, and set up home near the Elephant and Castle in South London. He and his wife occupied a ground floor flat consisting of a kitchen-living room, a bedroom, and a parlour, known as the front room. The front room was only used on Sundays, or when guests were invited, and housed most of their wedding presents on a large sideboard.

Alf had a steady job as a butcher's roundsman. He was at work at seven-thirty each morning, cutting up the joints for the orders and loading his van. This was his employer's first motor vehicle, and the pride of both men's hearts.

He enjoyed his work. He was quick and friendly, a favourite with his customers who liked his badinage and unfailing cheerfulness. At Christmas time he carried home as much in Christmas boxes from kindly clients as he did in his wage packet.

His wife Jessie, was a round pink girl with a frizzy fringe and pearl ear-rings. She liked satin blouses, an evening at the music had, or a lively sing-song with her friends in the front room. Alf adored her.

They had three children, Frank, Norman and Ursula. The first two were named after relatives, but Ursula derived her name from the pages of a novelette which her mother had been reading a few hours before the baby arrived. The heroine of the novelette had had a particularly affecting experience, at a chateau somewhere well behind the lines in the First World War, involving a wounded officer of unsurpassed valour and passion, and a great deal of heart-searching on Ursula's part before the final renunciation.

It was ad excessively moving, and the baby was to be either Jocelyn-the hero's name-or Ursula. And, eventually, after a prolonged and painful labour, Ursula arrived.

The family thrived, despite cramped conditions. The children ran round the corner to the gaunt Board School, as soon as they were old enough. The classes were enormous, the classrooms dark, but the teachers were well-trained and energetic, and the children got on famously.

Occasionally, Alf met Dusty at a British Legion function in London. The families exchanged Christmas cards, and one summer the London family was invited by Dusty to spend a holiday at Weymouth. This was a real treat and the children looked forward to it for weeks. But disappointment was in store. It was quite apparent, when they arrived, that though Dusty was pleased to see them, Edie was not.

'Miserable of faggot!' was Jessie's comment, in the privacy of the tiny back bedroom to which they had been shown. 'Some holiday this is going to be, Alf! You should've had more sense than to accept Dusty's invitation. He's properly under her thumb, poor soul!'

It was indeed a most uncomfortable time. The children were scolded if they brought in sand on their shoes, or sheds in their pockets. Jessie, bridling, did her utmost to keep silent for the sake of poor shame-faced Dusty, as much as for her own family. But everyone was relieved when Saturday came and they could return home.

The two women pecked each other's cheeks through their veils. The men shook hands a shade too heartily, and avoided each other's eyes. The children smiled more freely than they had done all the week, as they hung out of the train window.

'Never again!' exclaimed Jessie, as the train left Weymouth station. She withdrew two long hatpins from her straw hat, threw it on the rack, fussed up her fringe, and leant back with a sigh.

'That's the last I want to see of Edie Miller!' said Jessie flatly.

It was, in fact, the last that she did see of Edie, or Dusty. For before the year was out, jolly lively Jessie was operated on for cancer, and died under the anaesthetic. Alf was inconsolable.

Ursula was ten at the time of her mother's death. The boys were twelve and thirteen. Jessie's mother, a widow who lived nearby, took over the running of the house and the upbringing of the children. For Alf, it seemed as if the sun had gone for ever. For months he went about, looking like a shadow of his usual jaunty self, but gradually he recovered. His customers were glad to see his return to cheerfulness. He threw himself with renewed fervour into his work and into such activities as the British Legion's affairs. He and Dusty met often, but never spoke of the holiday which had been Jessie's last.

Years passed, and the two boys went out to work in New Zealand, where they married and settled. Ursula took over the housekeeping when their grandmother died, and Alf and his daughter rubbed along fairly well together.

She was nothing like her mother, Alf used to think, watching her at the other side of the hearth. She was thin and angular, with a sharp tongue and a way of tossing her head, when crossed, which Alf recognised as a danger signal. He was secretly relieved when she became engaged to a young man from Northampton, and he gave her away without a pang.

Then began for Alf some of the happiest years of his life. He was free to do as he pleased. His work ran smoothly, his health was good, his spirits remarkably gay now that he had the house to himself. A neighbour cleaned the flat once a week, and for the rest of the time the dust gathered gently, the oven remained cold, and only the frying pan and kettle were in general use. Life was very simple.

He began to see more of Dusty Miller. Both men were now in their sixties and had plenty of reminiscences to share. During the Second War Dusty had been to the forefront in Civil Defence at Weymouth. Alf had been in the Fire Service, and both had experienced hair-raising episodes. Somehow, they did not talk of these. It was always the First World War which engrossed their attention. They relived the flight from Mons, the tedium and terror of trench life and die horror of that day when L Battery was wiped out beside them. They reminded each other, too, of lighter moments. Did Alf remember the time when his horse wheeled smartly into the pub yard as was its wont, leaving the colonel, whom he was accompanying, looking thunderstruck on the highway? Did Dusty recall die occasion when he played die piano in the pub, and generous comrades filled his tumbler with Benedictine, so that he began to think that he was playing a two-manual organ?

Time passed all too quickly when the old soldiers met. Dusty now ran a small car and frequently took Alf out. Sometimes, Alf stayed a day or two at Weymouth. Edie was civilly welcoming, but it was Dusty who did the real entertaining. The Millers had no family, and all Edie's energy seemed to go into the running of the flourishing business. The two men seemed to see very Utile of her.

'Don't forget, old boy,' said Dusty, on many occasions, 'there's always a home here for you, if you get tired of your own company. Just say the word. Plenty of room for one more.'

Alf was grateful, and failed to notice that on these occasions Edie was either absent, or silent.

When Alf was seventy he had the first real illness of his life. It had been a miserable December, cold and foggy. Mists from the Thames hung over the area where Alf lived and worked, making life doubly difficult at the busy time before Christmas. Handling frozen meat, his hands numb and aching, Alf began to feel his age. The round seemed to take twice as long as usual, hampered as he was with fog and extra orders. Customers were short-tempered, the traffic was frustrating, and Alf looked forward to the Christmas break with more fervour than he had ever felt before.

One night, a few days before Christmas, he returned home late and tired. His chest was unusually painful. To breathe was difficult; to cough was agonising. Reluctantly, after a night of wakefulness, he dragged himself to the local doctor's surgery.

'Bed for you,' was the verdict. 'Who is there to look after you?'

'No one,' said Alf. 'Well, I've a daughter, but she's in Northampton.'

'See if she can come down,' said the doctor, handing him a prescription. 'I'd be in tomorrow morning.'

Ursula, with a martyred expression, arrived the next evening. She made it quite clear that her duty really lay with her husband and children, that it was most inconvenient to leave home with so much to do, and that only her filial devotion had brought her so swiftly to her father's bedside. Alf thought, yet again, how different she was from her warm-hearted mother. If only his Jessie had still been alive! A tear, born of weakness, crept down his cheek, and Ursula, noticing it, was glad to see how grateful the old fellow was to her.

Two wretchedly uncomfortable days followed, while Ursula grew steadily more dictatorial and her father grew steadily weaker. The doctor, summing up the situation, removed Alf to hospital, warning Ursula that he might not be fit to live alone when he was well enough to be discharged.

'I don't need to be reminded of my duty,' said Ursula, bridling. 'Dad's got a home with us at Northampton whenever he wants it.'

'He'll want it very soon,' the doctor assured her.

It was a sad day for Alf, some weeks later, when he left the flat which had been his home for so long. A few treasured pieces of furniture travelled ahead to Northampton, the rest went to local auction rooms.

One windy March day of blinding rain, Alf took the train to the Midlands, with a very heavy heart.

He knew, as soon as he crossed the threshold, that it would never work. There was something about the angular light wood hat-stand in the had, and the overpowering aroma of floor polish that met him, which seemed to epitomise the unwelcoming quality of Ursula's abode.

He had been allotted the front room, a bleak, north-facing apartment, sparsely furnished. An iron bedstead, with a thin mattress and frosty white counterpane, took up the space by the window. The lino, printed to look like parquet blocks, shone like a mirror. A skimpy rug slid about the polished surface whenever anyone was rash enough to step on it. A small one-bar electric fire did its best to cast a little warmth into the room, but failed miserably.

Alf's two grandchildren came into the room to greet him. They were an unprepossessing pair. Sandra was a lumpy, sandy-haired eight-year-old, and Roger a skinny, rabbit-toothed boy of eleven. Both had adenoids and breathed habitually through their mouths. As they ate almost without cessation, the spectacle of his grandchildren did not encourage Alf's affection for them.

Their father was a lorry driver, a man of few words, but enormous appetite. It seemed to Alf, in the months that followed, that Ursula spent most of her time peeling great saucepans full of potatoes to assuage his hunger. He did not see much of his son-in-law, as he worked long hours, and Alf regretted this. It would have been nice to have a man to talk to, now and again. With every week that passed, Alf realised, with increasing despair, how bitter it is not to have a home of one's own.

He did his best to remain equable. Indeed, with his unquenchable Cockney spirit, 'cheerfulness kept breaking in,' whether he would or no. Ursula resented this. She would have liked to see a proper humility, an appreciation of all her hard work. The gay quip, die sardonic aside, any sort of ironic levity, beloved of Alf, smacked of insurrection to Ursula. It was obvious that the old man would rebel one day; and before long, things came to the bod between Ursula and her father.

The row began, as might be expected, over the children. It was a hot May day, so hot, in fact, that for once Alf was grateful for his cold room. He sat, reading a letter which had come from Weymouth that morning, and looking forward to his tea when the children returned from school.

Dusty wrote as affectionately as ever. He knew, well enough, that his old friend was unhappy although he had not said so in black and white.

'Don't forget, what I've said before,' wrote Dusty, 'that you are welcome here any time you like to come.'

Alf found great comfort in that sentence. He read it several times before returning the letter to its envelope on the table, and then settled back for a doze.

Before long he awoke. The two children were in the room, the boy gazing out of the window, and Sandra-Alf's anger rose as his senses returned—Sandra was reading Dusty's letter.

He struggled to his feet and made towards the table.

'Don't you dare meddle with my things!' stormed the old man. The clnld looked sideways at him and contorted her face, by the lift of one nostril, into a contemptuous sneer. Just so, many years before, Ursula had looked at him, and received a resounding box on the ear.

Without thinking further, Alf repeated the process, and had one moment of unalloyed pleasure as his palm clouted the sandy head.

The piercing shrieks that followed brought Ursula hurrying from the kitchen.

''E 'it me, mum! I wasn't doing nothin', mum! 'E just 'it me!'

Ursula's face and neck grew red with wrath.

'You keep your hands to yourself,' she yelled. 'I can remember your bullying ways when I was her age! Don't you think you can knock my kids about the way you knocked us!'