The Likes of Us (24 page)

Mrs Stringer said nothing.

‘Well, our Bessie can wed him if she likes. She'll go her own road in the end, an' she's too old to be said by me. But there's no need to plan on bringin' him here to live. They'll have to find some place of their own... An' what's more, I won't have you havin' 'em in the house when I'm out. You hear what I say, Agnes? You're to have no more to do wi' that young man.'

It was at this point that Mrs Stringer, who had not said much so far, suddenly uttered a long drawn-out moan as of endurance taxed to its limit. ‘O-o-oh! For heaven's sake, will you shut up!' And bringing a dinner plate clear of the soapy water she lifted it high in both hands and crashed it down on the tap.

Luther's jaw dropped as the pieces clattered into the sink. ‘Have you gone daft?'

‘I shall go daft if I hear you talk much longer.'

‘That's a plate from t'best dinner service you've just smashed.'

‘I know it is, an' I don't care. You can pay for it out o' that rise your union's gettin' you. As for me, I've had enough. I'm havin' my one-day strike tomorrow. I'm off to our Gertie's first thing an' I shan't be back till late. You can look after yourself. Aye, an' talk to yourself, for all I care.'

‘You're not feelin' badly, are you?' Luther said. ‘What's come over you?'

‘Principle,' Mrs Stringer said. ‘Twenty-seven year of it, saved up.' And with that she walked out of the kitchen and left him.

Luther went back into the living-room and picked up his paper. He switched on the radio for the news and switched off immediately when he got the amplified roar of a pop group. He tried for some minutes to read the paper, and then threw it down and wandered out into the passage and stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at the landing as though wondering what his wife was doing. He remained in that attitude for several minutes, and then, as though reaching a decision, or dismissing the problem as not being worth the worry, he reached for his cap and coat and left the house for the pub on the corner where he was sure to find someone who spoke his language.

Closing Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the time Halloran had backed his fancy and got out of Mulholland's Betting Shop and gone along the road, the landlord of the Greyhound, Jack Marshall, was shutting his front door. Halloran shouted, ‘Ey! Ey, Jack!' Marshall looked round the door as Halloran crossed the road in a stiff-legged run.

‘Am I not in time for one?' Halloran asked, catching his breath.

‘Nay, Michael, it's gone twenty past three.'

‘I was hoping to see Tommy Corcoran,' Halloran said.

‘He was up and away half an hour ago. They've all gone. And I'm closing.'

Halloran pulled at his long thin nose, his brow wrinkling in thought.

‘There's no harm in me comin' in for a minute. If I could just see the telly for the three-thirty.'

The landlord hesitated, then stood aside. ‘Come on, then, before t'bobby sees you.'

‘Sure, they can't object to a man lookin' at the telly.'

‘They object to all sorts o' things on licensed premises.'

Halloran went into the big lounge bar where the television set stood high up on a shelf at one end of the long counter. He watched as Marshall switched on and the screen flickered into life. In a moment his eyes fell and passed over the pump handles. His seeming to catch everything in the tail of his gaze, as though his brain were a fraction slow in registering what his eyes moved across, gave him an appearance of slyness.

‘Ah, you've got the... the towels on.'

‘I have,' Marshall said. ‘And they're not coming off.'

‘Ah!' Halloran nodded several times. Then he held up a tentative hand, the thumb and forefinger an inch apart. ‘Perhaps a...?'

‘You'll get me shot,' the landlord said. ‘I expect you've spent all dinnertime at the Black Horse.'

‘No, no.' Halloran shook his head. ‘I haven't had a drop today. Honest.'

‘I'll believe you, where thousands wouldn't,' Marshall said. ‘All right. What's it to be?'

‘A rum an' pep. You're a decent man, Jack... Did Tommy Corcoran ask after me at all?'

‘Not that I know of. Was it summat special you had to see him about?'

‘He thought there might be the chance of a job on the site.' Halloran took the glass the landlord placed on the bar counter and felt for his money. ‘Will you, er...?'

‘No, thanks all the same, Michael. I've had me ration for this dinnertime.'

He put the coins in the till and gave Halloran his change.

‘A job, eh? You're not going back to carryin' the hod at your age, are you?'

‘Oh, I've still plenty of life in me,' Halloran said.

‘Oh, aye, I don't doubt that.'

At fifty-five, Halloran, with a wife ten years younger than himself, had just fathered his eleventh child. With the dole and family allowances, plus various supplementary benefits, they managed to live in the periods when Halloran was out of work – periods which were now longer than those in which he was employed. Sometimes he would be technically in work but playing sick with one of his recurrent disabilities: his back, his chest, or his legs. His contempt matched that of others when discussing the work-shy who lived off social security and were kept by the dues and taxes of more conscientious men.

The landlord washed and polished glasses as the runners lined up for the three-thirty race.

‘You've got summat on this, have you, Michael?'

‘I have.'

‘And what is it you fancy?'

Halloran held up a quietening hand as the commentator began to speak. Marshall shrugged and went back into the private quarters to have a word with his wife.

‘Is there anybody still through there?'

‘Only Michael Halloran. He popped in to watch the three-thirty.'

‘He's not drinking, is he?'

‘Only a small rum and pep.'

‘You're daft, Jack, risking trouble with the police for a feller like Michael Halloran.'

‘It's all right. If they come in, he's with me.'

‘You'd think some of them had no homes to go to.'

‘His must be a bit crowded.'

‘Whose fault is that?'

‘Aye, all right, then, don't get on. He'll be away in a minute.'

‘You're the wrong type to keep a pub, Jack. You lean too much to your customers.'

‘Don't talk so daft. How much drinking after time have you seen here? I run this place as well as anybody else could. A bit more interest from you 'ud be a help.'

‘You know how I feel about it. You've never done. It's after half-past three now. You'll be open again at six and you won't get to bed till one. What kind of life is that?'

‘It's a pity you didn't say all this before we came.'

‘I did, but you wouldn't listen.'

It was true. He'd known he was persuading her against her real wishes, but he'd persisted, hoping she would take to the life in time. Instead, she had become more bitter and dissatisfied than she had ever been. With their children grown up and gone away, Marshall had looked for something they could tackle together, which they could build on towards better things. His idea was to acquire experience here for the time when they could have their own business – perhaps a small hotel, or in some branch of catering. But to his wife they had gone from the voluntary bondage of the family to the enforced one of licensing hours and regulations, the need to be pleasant to people they didn't care for, and all the endless comings and goings of pub life. She had never cared for pubs. It was all beneath her.

Marshall looked at his watch. ‘The race'll be over now. I'll get him out and finish clearing up.'

When he went back into the bar there was no sign of Halloran. Marshall switched off the television set and washed out Halloran's empty glass. He waited a while for Halloran to come back from the gents, then went to look for him. He was not there; nor, with the front door still bolted, was there any indication that he had left.

‘Now, where the hell's he gone to?' he said out loud.

He took cloth and bucket and went round into the lounge to empty the ashtrays and wipe the tabletops. It was when he turned in the process of doing this to face the bar counter that he saw Halloran slumped there on the floor. Marshall went and crouched over him.

‘Now then, Michael, what's all this about?'

His first impulse was to lift Halloran under the armpits and get him on to a chair; but when he saw that the man was unconscious and breathing in an odd, strained way, he straightened up and called along the passage to his wife.

‘Nora! Nora! Come here, will you?'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Come here. Quick!'

She came at her own speed. ‘What is it?'

‘It's Halloran.'

She stretched up and leaned over the counter. ‘Oh God! Is he drunk?'

‘No, he's badly. He's collapsed. I think it's his heart.'

She came round. ‘Has he complained about it at all?'

‘He's complained about all manner of things. Half the time I didn't believe him.'

‘Can't you bring him round?'

‘Nay, I don't know how to deal with this. He needs expert attention.'

‘Shall I ring for a doctor?'

‘Better dial 999 for an ambulance. That'll be quicker.'

‘They don't like that unless it's an emergency.'

‘It is an emergency. He could be dying, for all we know. And bring me that travelling-rug and cushion out of the living-room. I daren't move him but I'd better wrap him up and keep him warm.'

The ambulance was at the door in six minutes, diverted from a scheduled call in the district by a wireless message.

‘It looks like a coronary,' one of the two men said as they got Halloran onto a stretcher. ‘Have you got his name and address?'

‘Aye. Where will you take him?'

‘The General. Has he got a wife?'

‘Yes. I'll go round and tell her as soon as you've gone.'

He saw them out through the front door and watched the ambulance move off. His wife was in the lounge again when he went in. She held up a piece of paper.

‘Is this anything important?'

‘It's a betting slip. Where did you find it?'

‘On the floor, where he'd been lying.'

‘I'll see to it.' He folded the slip and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

‘Are you going to see the wife now?'

‘I ought to. Isn't it that stone-built cottage at the far end of Furness Street?'

‘Don't ask me. You'd better watch out for a horde of kids.'

‘Aye. Will you finish off in here for me while I'm gone?'

She looked round reluctantly.

‘There's not much to do,' he said.

‘All right.'

Don't bloody force yourself, he thought in a spasm of temper. Always, in everything, working against the grain. He went out through the back door to the car in the yard.

Passing Mulholland's Betting Shop on the way he remembered the slip and stopped. He went in and showed it to the clerk.

‘Is there anything to draw on this?'

The clerk looked it up in his ledger. ‘I'll say there is. Didn't you hear the result?'

‘No. It's not mine, you see.'

‘Oh. Wait a minute. Wasn't this bet placed by Michael Halloran?'

‘That's right. He was taken ill in my pub and I found it afterwards. I'm on my way to see his wife.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that. Is he bad?'

‘We won't know till she phones the hospital.'

‘They've taken him away, then?'

‘Yes. If you'd rather I got his wife to come herself.'

‘No, that's all right. You've got the slip. It'll be a nice surprise for Michael, when he hears about it.'

‘You mean it's a sizeable win?'

‘He had a fiver on “Rocky Road”, an outsider. It came in at 33 to 1. A damn good job we laid it off.'

‘Good heavens!'

‘It'll maybe cheer his missis up as well.'

‘I should think so!'

He found the Hallorans' house on a stretch of unmade road at the dead end of Furness Street. It stood on a patch of ground, littered with old sheds and a wired-in enclosure full of hens, by a now disused railway line. There were slates missing from the low sagging roof and it was possible only to guess what colour the last coat of paint had been. The woman who answered his knock had lingering signs of prettiness in her dark, nearly black eyes, and the set of her cheekbones. She carried a baby in her arms as she looked at him.

‘Mrs Halloran? I'm Jack Marshall from the Greyhound. I've got a message about your husband.'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm afraid he's been taken ill.' He saw the fear spring at once into her eyes.

‘Ill?'

‘He collapsed in the pub. I thought it best to call an ambulance. They've taken him to the Infirmary.'

Two children had appeared in the doorway now. They tugged at her skirt. ‘What's wrong, Mam?' She spoke to them with a surprising gentleness, her gaze never leaving Marshall's face.

‘This gentleman's come with a message about your father. He's not...?' She shook her head slowly as though willing him to give a favourable answer.

‘No, no. If you just give 'em a chance to see to him, and then ring up, you'll very likely find he's all right... There was something else... If I could come in for a minute...'

‘All right.'

He followed her through the door into a big unkempt all-purpose room. The reek from some badly washed nappies drying on the brass rail of the guard round the hot fire caught at his throat and he swallowed hard, controlling a desire to retch.

‘Your husband had a bet on a horse this afternoon. It came in at 33 to 1.' He took the bundle of fivers out of his pocket and put it on the table. ‘A hundred and fifty-nine pounds, and some silver. Perhaps you'd like to count it.'

She barely glanced at it. He didn't think she could understand.

‘It's a lot of money,' he said.

‘I can't get out of the house just now,' she said. ‘Maybe when my bigger ones get in from school... But there's still the baby. He has to be fed regular, and I'm givin' him the breast, y'see.' She bit her lower lip fretfully. ‘Will I be able to see him, d'you think?'

‘I'd telephone first,' Marshall said, ‘just to see how he is.'

He suddenly realized that she was finding the problem insuperable.

‘Would you like me to ring up myself a bit later on, then come back and tell you how he is?'

‘Would you do that? It sounds like an awful trouble.'

‘It's no trouble.'

One of the children, a boy of about three, pulled up one side of his trousers and began to urinate on the flagstone floor in a corner.

‘Kevin!' his mother said, softly reproachful. ‘Don't you know better than that? What will the gentleman think? Go and get a cloth and wipe it up, now.'

‘Oh, poor Michael,' she said then. ‘I thought there was something wrong with him this morning, when he hardly touched the breakfast I cooked for him. He's not strong, y'know.'

Marshall turned at the door. ‘I'll pop back later, then, and tell you the news. And I'd put that somewhere safe.'

‘What?' She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Oh, yes.'

The bigger of the children had climbed onto a chair and was setting out the notes singly in rows across the top of the table.

‘D'you think you could pass on a message to him when you telephone?'

‘I'll see.'

‘Will you tell him he's not to worry, an' I'll be over to see him as soon as I can.'

‘I'll do that.'

Marshall took several very deep breaths on his way back to the car, filling his lungs with cold fresh air.