New and Collected Stories (23 page)

We went on many ‘expeditions', as Doris called them. I even got a makeshift job at a factory in case anybody should wonder how I was living. Doris asked if it would be OK to bring a school pal with us one night, and this caused our first argument. I said she was loony to think of such a thing, and did she imagine I was running a school for cowing crime, or summat? I hoped she hadn't mentioned our prowling nights to anybody else – though she hadn't, as it turned out, and all she'd wanted was to see if this particular girl at her school would be able to do this sort of job as cool as she could. ‘Well, drop it,' I said, sharp. ‘We do all right our oursens, so let's keep it to oursens.'

Having been brought up as the ragman's daughter and never wanting for dough, she had hardly played with the kids in the street. She hadn't much to do with those at school either, for they lived mostly in new houses and bungalows up Wollaton and would never come to Radford to call on her. So she'd been lonely in a way I never had been.

Her parents lived in a house off Churchfield Lane, a big ancient one backing its yards (where the old man still kept some of his scrap mountains) on to the Leen. Her dad had worked like a navvy all day and every day of his life, watching each farthing even after he was rich enough to retire like a lord. I don't know what else he could have done. Sucked icecream at the seaside? Gardened his feet off? Fished himself to death? He preferred to stick by sun, moon or electric light sorting metal or picking a bone with his own strength because, being a big and satisfied man, that was all he felt like doing – and who could blame him? Doris told me he was mean with most things, though not with her. She could have what she liked.

‘Get a hundred, then,' I said.

But she just smiled and thought that wouldn't be right, that she'd only have from him what he gave her because she liked it better that way.

Every week-end she came to our house, on her horse except when the weather was bad. If nobody else was in she fastened her steed to the fence and we went up to my bedroom, got undressed and had the time of our lives. She had a marvellous figure, small breasts for her age, yet wide hips as if they'd finished growing before anything else of her. I always had the idea she felt better out of her clothes, realizing maybe that no clothes, even if expensive like gold, could ever match her birthday suit for a perfect fit that was always the height of fashion. We'd put a few Acker Bilks low on my record player and listen for a while with nothing on, getting drowsy and warmed up under the usual talk and kisses. Then after having it we'd sit and talk more, maybe have it again before mam or dad shouted up that tea was ready. When on a quiet day the horse shuffled and whinnied, it was like being in a cottage bedroom, alone with her and in the country. If it was sunny and warm as well and a sudden breeze pushed air into the room and flipped a photo of some pop singer off the shelf and felt softly at our bare skins I'd feel like a stallion, as fit and strong as a buck African and we'd have it over and over so that my legs wobbled as I walked back down the stairs.

People got used to seeing her ride down the street, and they'd say: ‘Hellow, duck' – adding: ‘He's in' – meaning me – ‘I just saw him come back from the shop with a loaf.' George Clark asked when I was going to get married, and when I shouted that I didn't know he laughed: ‘I expect you've got to find a place big enough for the horse as well, first.' At which I told him to mind his own effing business.

Yet people were glad that Doris rode down our street on a horse, and I sensed that because of it they even looked up to me more – or maybe they only noticed me in a different way to being carted off by the coppers. Doris was pleased when a man coming out of the bookie's called after her: ‘Hey up, Lady Luck!' – waving a five-pound note in the air.

Often we'd go down town together, ending up at the pictures, or in a pub over a bitter or babycham. But nobody dreamed what we got up to before finally parting for our different houses. If we pinched fags or food or clothes we'd push what was possible through the letterbox of the first house we came to, or if it was too big we'd leave good things in litter-bins for some poor tramp or tatter to find. We were hardly ever seen, and never caught, on these expeditions, as if love made us invisible, ghosts without sound walking hand in hand between dark streets until we came to some factory, office, lock-up shop or house that we knew was empty of people – and every time this happened I remember the few seconds of surprise, not quite fear, at both of us knowing exactly what to do. I would stand a moment at this surprise – thankful, though waiting for it to go – until she squeezed my hand, and I was moving again, to finish getting in.

I was able to buy a motorbike, a secondhand powerful speedster, and when Doris called she'd leave her horse in our backyard, and we'd nip off for a machine-spin towards Stanton Ironworks, sliding into a full ton once we topped Balloon House Hill and had a few miles of straight and flat laid out for us like an airport runway. Slag heaps looked pale blue in summer, full triangles set like pyramid-targets way ahead and I'd swing towards them between leaf hedges of the country road, hoping they'd keep that far-off vacant colour, as if they weren't real. They never did though, and I lost them at a dip and bend, and when next in sight they were grey and useless and scabby, too real to look good any more.

On my own I rode with L plates, and took a test so as to get rid of them on the law's side of the law, but I didn't pass because I never was good at examinations. Roaring along with Doris straight as goldenrod behind, and hearing noises in the wind tunnel I made whisper sweet nothings into our four ear-holes, was an experience we loved, and I'd shout: ‘You can't ride as fast as this on a horse' – and listen to the laugh she gave, which meant she liked to do both.

She once said: ‘Why don't we go on an expedition on your bike?' and I answered: ‘Why don't we do one on your hoss?' adding: ‘Because it'd spoil everything, wouldn't it?'

She laughed: ‘You're cleverer than I think.'

‘No kidding,' I said, sarky. ‘If only you could see yoursen as I can see you, and if only I could see mysen as you can see me, things would be plainer for us, wouldn't they?'

I couldn't help talking. We'd stopped the bike and were leaning on a bridge wall, with nothing but trees and a narrow lane round about, and the green-glass water of a canal below. Her arm was over my shoulder, and my arm was around her waist: ‘I wonder if they would?' she said.

‘I don't know. Let's go down into them trees.'

‘What for?'

‘Because I love you.'

She laughed again: ‘Is that all?' – then took my arm: ‘Come on, then.'

We played a game for a long time in our street, where a gang of us boys held fag lighters in a fair wind, flicking them on and off and seeing which light stayed on longest. It was a stupid game because everything was left to chance, and though this can be thrilling you can't help but lose by it in the end. This game was all the rage for weeks, before we got fed up, or our lighters did, I forget which. Sooner or later every lighter goes out or gives in; or a wind in jackboots jumps from around the corner and kicks it flat – and you get caught under the avalanche of the falling world.

One summer's week-end we waited in a juke-box coffee bar for enough darkness to settle over the streets before setting out. Doris wore jeans and sweatshirt, and I was without a jacket because of the warm night. Also due to the warmth we didn't walk the miles we normally did before nipping into something, which was a pity because a lot of hoof-work put our brains and bodies into tune for such quiet jobs, relaxed and warmed us so that we became like cats, alert and ready at any warning sound to duck or scram. Now and again the noise of the weather hid us – thunder, snow, drizzle, wind, or even the fact that clouds were above made enough noise for us to operate more safely than on this night of open sky with a million ears and eyes of copper stars cocked and staring. Every footstep deafened me, and occasionally on our casual stroll we'd stop to look at each other, stand a few seconds under the wall of a side-lit empty street, then walk on hand in hand. I wanted to whistle (softly) or sing a low tune to myself, for, though I felt uneasy at the open dumb night, it was also the kind of night that left me confident and full of energy, and when these things joined I was apt to get a bit reckless. But I held back, slowed my heart and took in every detail of each same street – so as to miss no opportunity, as they drummed into us at school. ‘I feel as if I've had a few,' I said, in spite of my resolution.

‘So do I.'

‘Or as if we'd just been up in my room and had it together.'

‘I don't feel like going far, though,' she said.

‘Tired, duck?'

‘No, but let's go home. I don't feel like it tonight.'

I wondered what was wrong with her, saying: ‘I'll walk you back and we'll call it a day.'

In the next street I saw a gate leading to the rear yard of a shop, and I was too spun up to go home without doing anything at all: ‘Let's just nip in here. You needn't come, duck. I wain't be five minutes.'

‘OK.' She smiled, though my face was already set at that loot-barrier. It wasn't very high, and when I was on top she called: ‘Give me a hand up.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Of course I am.' It was the middle of a short street, and lamp-posts at either end didn't shed radiance this far up. I got to the back door and, in our usual quiet way, the lock was forced and we stood in a smell of leather, polish and cardboard boxes.

‘It's a shoe shop,' Doris said. I felt my path across the storehouse behind the selling part of the shop, by racks and racks of shoe boxes, touching paper and balls of string on a corner table.

We went round it like blind people in the dark a couple of times just to be sure we didn't miss a silent cashbox cringing and holding its breath as our fingers went by. People on such jobs often miss thousands through hurrying or thinking the coppers are snorting down their necks. My old man insists I get the sack from one firm after another because I'm not thorough enough in my work, but if he could have seen me on this sort of task he'd have to think again.

There was nothing in the back room. I went into the shop part and in ten seconds flat was at the till, running my fingers over them little plastic buttons as if I was going to write a letter to my old man explaining just how thorough I could be at times. To make up for the coming small clatter of noise I held my breath – hoping both would average out to make it not heard. A couple of night owls walked by outside, then I turned the handle and felt the till drawer thump itself towards my guts. It's the best punch in the world, like a tabby cat boxing you with its paw, soft and loaded as it slides out on ballbearing rollers.

My hand made the lucky dip, lifted a wad of notes from under a spring-weight, and the other scooped up silver, slid it into my pocket as if it were that cardboard money they used to lend us at infants' school to teach us how to be good shoppers and happy savers – not rattling good coin ready for grown-ups to get rid of. I went to the back room and stood by the exit to make sure all was clear.

The light went on, a brilliant blue striplight flooding every corner of the room. I froze like a frog that's landed in grass instead of water. When I could speak I said to Doris: ‘What did you do that for?' – too scared to be raving mad.

‘Because I wanted to.' She must have sensed how much I felt like bashing her, because: ‘Nobody can see it from the street' – which could have been true, but even so.

‘Kicks are kicks,' I said, ‘but this is a death trap.'

‘Scared?' she smiled.

‘Just cool' – feeling anything but. ‘I've got about fifty quid in my pocket.'

She stood against a wall of shoe boxes, and even a telly ad couldn't have gone deeper into my guts than the sight of Doris now. Yellow arms of light turned full on her left me in the shade – which was fine, for I expected to see the dead mug of a copper burst in at any moment. Yet even at that I wouldn't be able to care. I felt as if music was in my head wanting to get out, as if it had come to me because I was one of those who could spin it out from me, though knowing I'd never had any say in a thing like that.

She didn't speak, stood to her full fair height and stared. I knew we were safe, that no copper would make any capture that night because the light she had switched on protected us both. We were cast-iron solid in this strongbox of shoes, and Doris knew it as well because when I couldn't help but smile she broke the spell by saying:

‘I want to try some shoes on.'

‘What?'

‘Maybe they've got some of the latest.'

The idea was barmy, not so that I wanted to run like a shot stag out of the place, but so that I could have done a handstand against the wall of boxes. I lifted out an armful and set them on the floor like a game of dominoes. She chose one and opened it gently. I took up a box and split it down the middle: ‘Try these.'

They were too small, a pair of black shiners with heels like toothpicks. ‘I wish the shopkeeper was here,' she said, ‘then he could tell me where the best are. This is a waste of time.'

I scoffed. ‘You don't want much, do you? You'd have to pay for them, then. No, we'll go through the lot and find a few pairs of Paris fashions.'

‘Not in this shop' – contemptuously slinging a pair of plain lace-ups to the other side of the room, enough noise to wake every rat under the skirting board. From the ladder I passed down a few choice boxes, selecting every other on the off chance of picking winners. ‘I should have come in skirt and stockings,' she said, ‘then I could have told which ones suit me.'

‘Well, next time we go into a shoe shop I'll let you know; I'll wear an evening suit and we'll bring a transistor to do a hop with. Try these square toes. They'll go well with slacks.'