The Likes of Us (8 page)

 

Mother and daughter heard at the same time the low growl of the motor-cycle as it approached the house.

‘That'll be Eric now,' said Eva, glancing at her wristwatch. ‘He said about ten.' She reached for her boots and slipped her feet into them.

‘Won't you have a cup o' tea before you go?'

‘No, thanks, love.' Eva stood up. ‘We really haven't time tonight. We promised to call an' see some friends.' She reached for her handbag and felt inside it. ‘Before I forget... here, take this.' She held out her hand, palm down. ‘It'll come in handy.'

Her mother had automatically put out her own hand before she realized that it was a ten-shilling note she was being offered. ‘No,' she said. ‘Thanks all the same; but it isn't your place to give me money.'

‘I can give you a present, can't I?' Eva said. ‘Take it an' treat yourself to something nice. You don't get many treats.'

‘How should I explain it to your father?' Mrs Scurridge said. ‘He thinks I squander his money as it is. And I couldn't tell him you'd given it to me.'

Eva put the note back in her bag. ‘All right. If that's the way you feel about it…'

‘I don't want you to be offended about it,' her mother said. ‘But you know how it is.'

‘Yes,' Eva said, ‘I know how it is.'

The sound of the motor-cycle had died now at the back of the house and there was a knock on the door. Eva went out into the passage and returned with Eric, her husband. He said, ‘Evenin' to Mrs Scurridge and stood just inside the doorway, looking sheepishly round the room, then at his wife who had put on her coat and was now adjusting her headscarf over her ears. He was a big fair young man, wearing a heavy leather riding-coat and thigh-length boots. A crash helmet and goggles dangled from one end.

‘It'll be cold riding your bike tonight, I expect?' Mrs Scurridge said. She felt awkward with her son-in-law, for she had had no chance of getting to know him.

His eyes rested on her for a second before flitting back to Eva. ‘It's not so bad if you're well wrapped up,' he said. ‘Ready, love?' he said to Eva.

‘All about.' She picked up her handbag and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘I'll pop over again as soon as I can. An' you'll have to make an effort to get over to see us.'

‘I'll be surprising you one of these days.'

‘Well, you know you're welcome any time,' Eva said. ‘Isn't she, Eric?'

‘Yes, that's right,' Eric said. ‘Any time.'

She wondered vaguely what would be their reaction were she to walk in on them unexpectedly one evening; when they had company, for instance. Then she pushed the thought from her mind and followed them out to the back door where she and Eva kissed again. Eva walked across the crisp, hardening snow and got into the side-car. Mrs Scurridge called good night and watched them coast round the side of the house. She waited till she heard the sudden open-throttled roar of the engine before closing the door and going back into the house.

She sat down and looked into the fire and in a moment a flood of misery and self-pity had swept away the uncertain barrier of her indifference and was over-flowing in silent tears on to her sallow cheeks. For the first time in years she allowed herself the luxury of weeping. She wept for many things: for the loneliness of the present and the loneliness of the past; for that all too brief time of happiness, and for a future which held nothing. She wept for what might have been and she wept for what was; and there was no consolation in her tears. She sat there as the evening died and slowly her sorrow turned to a sullen resentment as she thought of Scurridge, away in the town, among the lights and people; Scurridge, struggling through the Saturday-evening crowds to stake her happiness on the futile speed of a dog in its chase after a dummy hare. Leaning forward some time later to stir the fire she was suddenly transfixed by a shocking stab of pain. The poker clattered into the hearth as the pain pierced her like a glowing spear. Then with an effort that made her gasp, and brought sweat to her brow, she broke its thrust and fell back into the chair. Lumbago: a complaint with a funny name, that lent itself to being joked about. But not in the least funny to her. It could strike at any moment, as it had just now, rendering her almost helpless. Sometimes it would pierce her in the night and she would lie there, sweating with the agony of it, until she could rouse Scurridge from his sottish sleep to turn her on to her other side. She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It might be in hour or more before Scurridge returned. She longed for the warmth of her bed and with her longing came a fierce desire to thwart Scurridge in some way.

It was then that she first thought of locking him out for the night.

It was a pathetic gesture, she knew; but it was all she could think of: the only way to show resentment and defiance. She foresaw no benefit from it and her imagination, dulled by the pain which hovered across the threshold of every moment, could not stretch even as far as Scurridge's rage in the morning. The immediate horizon of her thoughts contained only the warm bed and the oblivion of sleep. It could neither encompass nor tolerate Scurridge's drunken return and the possibility of a demand for the satisfying of flesh that was a mockery of their first youthful passion.

She boiled a kettle and filled a stone hot-water bottle and hobbled with it upstairs. Then she made some tea and searched the cupboard where she kept the remains of old medicinal prescriptions and bottles of patent remedies accumulated over the years, until she found a round box of sleeping pills once prescribed for her. The label said to take two, and warned against an overdose. She took two, hesitated, then swallowed a third. She wished to be soundly and deeply asleep when Scurridge came home. Standing there with the box in her hand it occurred to her to wonder if there were enough tablets to put her into a sleep from which she would never awaken, and she thrust the box out of sight among the bottles and packets and returned the lot to the cupboard. She poured herself some tea and sipped it before the fire, her hands clasped round the warmth of the mug. At eleven o'clock she raked the ashes down from the fireback and went into the passage and shot the bolts on the back door. Even as she stood there in the act she felt the insidious creep of the old apathy. What did it matter? What good would it do? She turned away and went back into the kitchen where she doused the gas. By the light of a candle she made her careful way upstairs. She undressed and lay shivering between the clammy sheets, moving the hot-water bottle round and round, from one part of her cold body to another, until eventually she became warm, and in a short time after that, fell asleep.

 

Scurridge stared from the pools coupon to the newspaper. A man came in and stood next to him at the bar counter. He ordered his drink and said to Scurridge, ‘A real freezer out tonight, isn't it?' Scurridge made no answer; he was hardly aware that he had been addressed. His mind was a maelstrom of excitement and he put his hand to his forehead and by an effort of will forced himself into sufficient calmness to recheck the column of results. It was right, as he'd thought. No mistake – he'd forecast seven drawn games and he needed only one more to complete the eight required for maximum points. One forecast only remained to be checked and that was a late result printed in blurred type in the stop press column of the newspaper. He peered at it again. It could be a draw or an away win, he thought. If it was an away win he would be one point down and eligible for a second dividend. That one point could mean the difference between a measly few hundred pounds and a fortune.

‘Here – can you make this out?'

He thrust the paper at the man who had spoken to him, pointing with his forefinger at the blurred print. ‘That last result there. Is it two all or two, three?'

The man put his glass on the counter and took the paper out of Scurridge's hands. He turned it to the light. ‘It's not right clear,' he said. ‘I dunno. I'd say it's more like two, three. An away win.'

‘It can't be,' Scurridge said. ‘It's got to be a draw.' He turned to the domino-playing miners. ‘Anybody got an Echo?' The excitement was plain in his voice and the big miner who passed the newspaper said, ‘What's up, Fred? Got a full line?' Scurridge grabbed the paper. ‘I dunno yet,' he said. ‘I dunno.' He ran his finger down the column to the result in question. It was a draw, completing his eight.

‘It's a draw,' Scurridge said. He crushed the paper in his hands and let it fall to the floor.

‘Hey up!' the big miner said. ‘That's my paper when you've done wi' it.'

‘I'll buy you a dozen bloody papers,' Scurridge said. ‘I've got eight lovely draws. Eight bloody lovely draws. Look!' He snatched the coupon from the counter and thrust it at the group of miners. ‘I've got eight draws an' there's on'y eight on the whole coupon!' The one sitting nearest took the coupon and scanned it. ‘See,' Scurridge said, pointing. ‘Seven on there an' this one here.'

The collier looked at the coupon in stupefaction. ‘By God, but he's up. He's up!'

‘Here, let's look,' said another, and the dominoes were laid face down while the coupon passed round the table. ‘Lucky sod,' one of the men muttered, and Scurridge took him up with an excited ‘What's that? Lucky? I've worked years for this. I've invested hundreds o' pounds in it, an' now it's up.'

‘It'll be a tot this week, Fred,' the big miner said. ‘There's on'y eight draws altogether so there won't be many to share the brass. Wha, it might be a hundred thousand quid!'

A hush fell over the group at the mention of this astronomical sum from which the interest alone could keep a man in comfort for a lifetime. A hundred thousand pounds! Somehow Scurridge's mind, occupied with the fact that the prize was in his grasp, had not yet put it into actual figures. But now excitement flamed in his face and his eyes grew wild.

‘It's bound to be,' he shouted. ‘There's nobbut eight draws on the whole coupon, I tell yer!'

He snatched his glass from the bar counter and took a long drink, slamming it down again as he came to a decision. ‘I've won six quid on t'dogs tonight,' he said. ‘I'll stand drinks all round. C'mon, drink wi' me. Have what yer like – whisky, rum, owt yer've a mind for.'

They passed up their glasses, needing no second invitation, and soon the news spread across the passage to the concert room, bringing people from there to slap Scurridge on the back and drink the beer he was paying for as he stood flushed and jubilant, pressed up against the bar.

Shortly after closing time he found himself on the street with a full bottle of rum and an empty pocket, in company with Charlie and Willy.

‘An' I allus say,' Charlie said, ‘I allus say a man shouldn't let his brass come between him an' his pals.'

‘What's money?' Scurridge said.

‘That's right, Fred, You've hit the bleedin' nail right on the head. What's money? I'll tell you what it is – it's a curse on the whole yuman race, a curse... An' I wish I had a cellarful. If I had a cellarful I'd lay in a nine-gallon barrel of ale an' I'd go down every night an' sup an' count it. An' I'd let you come an' help me, Fred. I wouldn't forget you. Oh no, not me. I wouldn't forget me old pals. What's money worth if it comes between a feller an' his pals?'

Willy belched stolidly. ‘Friendship's the thing.'

‘You never spoke a truer word, Willy,' Charlie said. He threw his arm across Willy's shoulders and leaned on him. ‘Your heart's in the right place, Willy lad.'

They parted company on the corner and as Scurridge moved away Charlie called after him, ‘Don't forget, Is'll want a ride in that Rolls-Royce.'

Scurridge waved the bottle of rum over his head. ‘Any time. Any time.'

As he passed along Corporation Street on his way through the town he was suddenly arrested by the thought that he should send off a telegram to the pools people claiming his win. Wasn't that what you did? You sent a telegram claiming a first dividend and followed it with a registered letter. But the post office was closed; he could see its dark face right there across the street from where he stood. It baffled him for a moment. How could he send a telegram when the post office was closed? Why hadn't the pools people thought of that? And then a dim glow of light by the door of the post office building reminded him of the telephone and he made his way unsteadily across the deserted street. Inside the call box he stared for some time at the black shape of the receiver before putting out a slow hand and lifting it to his ear. He had never before in his life used a public telephone and when a small voice spoke right into his ear he took sudden fright and slammed the receiver back into its cradle as though it had burned hot in his hand. Not until then, as he stood, breathing heavily, in the call box, did it occur to him that he would need some money. He began to rummage through his pockets. The search produced only two coins – a sixpence and a penny – and he looked at them where they lay in his palm, with mingled relief and regret. Regret that he could not, after all, make sure of his money, and relief that he would now have to put off the complex business of sending the telegram till tomorrow.

Outside on the pavement once more he was struck by the irony of having a hundred thousand pounds yet not having enough in his pocket to pay for a taxi home. He looked about him, getting his bearings; then he turned towards home. On the way he began to think of his wife. Christ! This would be one in the eye for her. She'd never believed he could do it. No bloody faith. All she wanted was brass for fancy foods and for keeping hens. Hens! God! And still more brass to throw away on that great barracks of a house. Well now she could have brass, all she needed. She'd see that Fred Scurridge didn't bear grudges. She'd see what sort of man he was. And they'd get right away from this God-forsaken district to somewhere where there was life and plenty of sun, and no more dropping down into that dark hole to sweat his guts out for a living. He'd done it now. He was free... free...