Chapter 2

The following day I didn’t wash up or clean up. I got up, and it was still raining; the flat was as dreary as ever, and I just had to get out quickly. Just grabbed a slice of bread and ate it dry as I walked down the steps into the yard. It must have been quite early; I could hear the rattle of milk bottles as I came out of the passage onto the street. Mr Wright with his old pick-up and two lads.

‘Morning Pete.’

‘Morning Jim.’

‘Called me George last night, you know. Reckon you were miles away!’

‘Sorry Jim. I don’t know why, I thought it was George, you know.’

Two lads scurrying back with the empties. Off again with fresh bottles; Mr Wright turning the truck round in the end of the street.

‘See you.’

‘See you.’

Lads jumping into cab and truck rumbling off.

It was too early to go to the library, so I thought I’d just wander down by the river for a bit, and never mind the mud. I climbed over the low wall at the end of Walker Terrace and down the bank into the old railway cutting. Even dead, the brambles made it quite an exercise; later in the year they’d be impenetrable. But the path at the bottom along the ballast was easier than the one at the top between the brambles and the wall.

I ambled along the bottom of the cutting without really thinking about anything and without meeting a soul, just feeling very empty. And beginning to get wet and a bit cold; the drizzle seemed able to get right through my cagoule. Condensation? But I wasn’t in a mood to care very much.

I crossed the new access track the quarry had made for itself across the line, without really noticing that someone had cut the barbed wire, or even thinking about the fact that I was trespassing. There didn’t seem to be any dangerous machinery using the track at the time; that was all I cared about. Then the line came out onto an embankment, and I could see down into the quarry. I could feel the wind and I noticed that the quarry seemed to be undercutting part of the embankment further round the curve. I wondered if they had the right; but I didn’t actually know whether perhaps they had bought this whole length of the line. It seemed safe enough when I got to that stretch of the embankment, but there was still a fence at the foot, and the quarry was being worked exactly to the line of the fence.

I thought, you can’t talk to June about things like that, she’s not interested. Nor Jill. And Mike’ll only talk when they aren’t with us. I wonder if Cathie thinks about things like that? What, if anything, is happening with Cathie?

I scrambled down the side of the embankment to cross Falls Lane where they’d demolished the bridge. What’s that noise? Ah. It’s a big diesel engine being started up, probably down in the quarry. Up onto the embankment the other side. The rain was beginning to ease off, and the sky had broken into separate tatters of cloud chasing each other across a pale grey background. In the east, over the town, there was even a shaft of sunlight bright against a bank of dark cloud on the horizon. From over there there’d be a fine rainbow over the town; I could see curtains of rain right in the light.

I’d stopped to watch the display, but then the rain hit me with a sudden squall, and I looked down the sides of the embankment for shelter, knowing already there was none. But the rain went as suddenly as it came, and then, a few moments later, I was in sunshine. Wet and happy.

Jesus, how quickly a mood can change, I thought, an impressive display of weather, and a bit of sunshine. Bingo!

But that made me think about moods, and why I’d been depressed, and then I got depressed again. I remembered I’d planned to clean up the flat, and wash up, and then go to the library, and then go to the Britannia. I decided I still could – only maybe miss out the cleaning and washing up until tomorrow. I walked on along the embankment in the wind and the fresh feeling after the rain. I thought, no, better do it today; it’ll only help to make you depressed again tomorrow, Pete, if it’s still there. I walked back to the gap where Falls Lane bridge wasn’t. But I just couldn’t be bothered to scramble down and up again; so I went to the broken edge and just stood there. I’ll have nothing else to do tomorrow, except that I’ll need to go to the launderette by then; it won’t fill the day, but it’ll help. Back along the embankment. Little clouds scudding northwards across a blue sky: it’s going to be a nice day. Rabbit! Stopped again, ears up. And off again, and out of sight into the hedgerow. I wondered what was going through its mind.

I clambered through the barbed wire onto the viaduct, walked to the middle, lay down on the huge stone blocks, and wriggled under the railings until my head was over the edge. How far down to the river? I didn’t know. The shadow of the viaduct fell across the falls but the locks on the canal lay in the light coming through one of the arches. Two years earlier those locks had been useless; now they were all clean concrete and new steel. I’d laboured on that job.

A small cabin cruiser putt-putted into sight from behind the paper mill. Lucky bastards! I wished I could afford to potter along the canal in something like that. I’d hoped at one time to get work on a freight barge when the canal was reopened, but I’d yet to see a single freight barge. I reckoned that the whole project was make-work and a leisure facility for the idle rich. But the depth was suitable for big stuff; pleasure boats rarely draw more than a couple of feet. Surely no-one would go to such lengths to con the public? Only a very few would realize the implications if they’d only made it three feet deep; and no-one else would listen to those few. Except those who would listen equally to the flat earth society.

I wished Cathie was there with me. My God, I’ve only talked to her for a few minutes! I mustn’t build this up into something it might not be! I tried to wish June was there with me; but I didn’t want her there. But it was a lovely feeling being there high up above the valley, with the sun and the shadows and everything little and sharply clear and fresh and wet far below. A lovely feeling that ached to be shared.

I didn’t hear the crunching of the ballast until they were very close. ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it, young man?’ An elderly couple with two dogs. Didn’t look the sort to be clambering through barbed wire.

‘Yes. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ What an inspiring conversation. Still, it signifies non-aggression. The cold was beginning to seep through my clothes from the stone, so I wriggled back and got up. The wind on wet clothes made me shiver. I ran to the south end of the viaduct and scrambled down into the shelter on the sunny side of the embankment.

Out of the wind I felt much more comfortable, but I jogged to the edge of the valley to try to warm up. There was a broken down wall at the top of the woods and then the ground dropped away steeply among the trees. I had to pick my way carefully; in places it was quite precipitous. After a few yards I reached the first arch of the viaduct and crossed the recognized footpath that went under it.

At the bottom I climbed over the gate and onto the tow path. It was very quiet; I could hear a few birds chattering somewhere and from behind the paper mill I could hear the roar of the falls sounding just like wind in leaves. I’d not been round here for several months – not since autumn – and then the paper mill had still been working. One of the smallest and oldest in the country. And now it was starting to show signs of decay. One winter; the gutters clogged up with leaves that hadn’t been cleared out in autumn, water running down the walls; doors hanging open and windows broken already. Depressing.

I had reached the first of the locks. The sun had moved round and now this side of the canal was in shadow. I walked out onto the lock gates – that pleasure boat’s crew was conscientious, they’d left both sets shut – and stood in the sun, contemplating the peacefulness. I looked up at the viaduct and tried to imagine myself up there, my head sticking out like a gargoyle above the central pillar. A rather short, timid gargoyle.

Then the paper mill with the sun beginning to catch it beckoned me and I set off again. I leapt over the spillway – which was running, so much for conscientious navigators – and that set me into a run as far as the mill. I poked my head round the corner of the half-open door. There was an abominable stench. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness I saw two old men lying in the passageway, fast asleep. Partly not wanting to wake them up, and partly because of the smell, I decided not to go in. I walked all round the mill, edging carefully past where the building came practically to the side of the canal and the hoist jutted out like a gibbet above. Then there was a cobbled yard between the end of the mill and the foot of the viaduct, slippery in the wet. At the side of the mill a flight of stone steps with a wide stone parapet led up the outside to another door, with ‘Office’ in flaking paint on a piece of delaminating plywood. I climbed up, but the door had a large padlock on it. Leaning over the parapet at the top of the stairs, I could see where there had obviously been a big waterwheel at one time. From up there I could see the top of the falls around the cut-off end of a narrow embankment; and then I realized for the first time that that narrow embankment had formerly carried the feedwaters for the mill.

Back down the stairs. I finished the circuit of the mill. Then over the lane and down to the side of the river. I found a suitable rock, dry in the wind and the sun, and sat down. The sun was on the falls, and on me, and the little bridge just above the falls was dark against the cataract in the shadow of the arch of the viaduct. I felt at peace. I was warm, and beginning to dry out. Sleepy.

And still this ache to share these idyllic surroundings.

I must have dozed off for a while because the next thing I knew the shadow of a pier had come across me and I was getting cold. Now the falls were in shade and the little bridge was capped in light. I mounted the rocks on the left of the falls and slipped through the stile into the lane. Standing on top of the bridge I was back in sunshine. I stared down into the water below the bridge hoping for a sight of some fish, but saw none.

It amazed me how quickly the edge of the viaduct’s shadow moved down the stonework. And suddenly the surface of the water was sparkling with light and the bottom had disappeared.

A bicycle appeared round the corner at the top of the hill, and swept down the slope. ‘Morning.’ ‘Morning.’ A rustle of displaced air and tyres on tarmac as he coasted over the hump. He sped on down, past the mill and under the viaduct out of sight. Nice bike.

I debated whether to amble into town yet, and go to the library; but if I went now, I’d have to stay there most of the day, or be stuck in town with nothing to do. But I was beginning to get hungry, so I thought perhaps I’d go into town straight away, maybe buy some cheese and a packet of pressed dates, and come back here for a while; or go to the library and come back here for a bit in the afternoon. But it probably wouldn’t be so nice later on, or the weather might break. But I was hungry so I set off into town and left the rest of the day to worry about itself.

I walked into town along Long Lane, because by the time I got to the end of Falls Lane, the hole in my guts was too insistent to allow me to follow the river. There was an articulated truck between the two bridges, almost blocking the lane. It had a flat tyre and there was no-one to be seen. As I climbed out of the valley, a yellow pick-up sped dangerously down the hill. The wheel in the back seemed incongruously huge.

Just past the brow of the hill I turned right down Westgate and went into Collingwood’s. They weren’t very busy yet and I was out through the checkout with my cheese and dates and milk in no time. I went to the bottom of Westgate, crossed Quebec street and went through the little passage through the old derelict warehouses. I sat on the huge stone sill and dangled my legs over the water. I ate my meal and basked in the sun there for a while. I could hear the buzz of town getting under way, and see the first few shoppers on Wharfe Street across the canal. But my little dead end passage was like another world. I felt as though no-one could see me, or as though if they did, they thought I was part of a fairy-tale; that there was no connection between my world and theirs. I don’t think anyone but me ever used the passageway; I suspected very few other people even knew it was there. But it couldn’t have been nearer the middle of Burnfield.

Tony and Steve walked down Wharfe Street. They didn’t look at the backs of the warehouses, even with the sunshine on them; whoever does? So they didn’t see me. I resisted the temptation to shout to them. I did that once to Mike from just there, and he looked all over for me. I couldn’t stop laughing. But I didn’t particularly want to talk to Tony or Steve. I wasn’t in the mood for casual chat.

Somewhere I could hear a telephone ringing. A little bird darted from the sill of a door on my left to the sill of a window on my right; it too knew this side of the canal was isolated from the bustle of the town.

After a while I decided I’d go and look in the library; maybe borrow a book and go back to the falls to read. Or maybe go somewhere else out of town so as not to spoil the memory of the morning. I got up and walked back out onto Quebec Street, turned right down to Bridge Street. The Britannia beckoned to me with its promise of a cup of tea; but I’d decided not to go there until the evening. Couldn’t afford to spend all my time there. My mind went back to the previous evening; Tom Green the newsvendor; wandering the streets; ‘Tina Loves Terry’; and Cathie. Cathie Jordan. Hope we get the place to ourselves again tonight. Hope I’m not making something out of nothing.

At the library they wouldn’t let me join; they said I needed some sort of identification. No, a letter addressed to me wouldn’t do. No driving licence? No banker’s card? No, it’s no use going home and getting your Birth Certificate, it doesn’t have your signature or your photograph on it, you could use anyone’s.

I didn’t feel like offering them my benefit card. I had the feeling there’d be some reason why that wouldn’t do either, and anyway the fact that I was a claimant seemed to be none of their business. I’m sure they knew, anyway: who else of my generation would be in the library at ten thirty on a Tuesday morning?

I went in to have a look anyway, and Chris was there. I told her the ridiculous tale, and she offered to borrow a book for me if I promised to return it in time. ‘You don’t have to show your ticket to return books. Anyone can return them for you. They just check the date stamp in the books.’ I was very grateful, and touched by her trust: if I kept the book, they’d charge her for it. But what I really wanted was to be able to borrow books in the future. When I’d found a book I wanted, and wanted to go, she’d gone. It hadn’t been all that long; I wondered if she’d had second thoughts.

So I left the library bookless. I didn’t want to go to the Britannia and ask for my book; I needed that as an intro for the evening. And I didn’t think I could afford to buy books, and I hadn’t the guts to shoplift them. So I wandered out of town, south along Bridge Street and then Wood Lane, disconsolate and wondering what to do with myself for the rest of the day.

In the usual manner, the day got on very well without any grand decisions about what I should do with myself. I just wandered around, first down by the aqueduct, and then around the steep little back streets in Raikeley. I hadn’t really explored Raikeley before; I discovered the library there for the first time. I’d never thought of anywhere so small having a library. It was just a converted house in one of the two main streets; and it was closed.

‘Opening hours: Monday, Wednesday and Friday, ten till three; Tuesday and Thursday, six till eight in the evening; Saturday, ten till twelve thirty.’

And just now it was Tuesday afternoon. I wondered what sort of books it had, and how many. And whether I would have been able to join easily if it had been open.

I did manage to find one of the two fish and chip shops open. There was a queue, and an old man arguing with the proprietor about his change. It was getting to be a hot day for early spring, but I didn’t think it was hot enough for frayed tempers; and I couldn’t tell who was in the right. Nor could I tell who won in the end. I got my chips eventually, and ate them sitting on the wall of the little cemetery on the top of the hill overlooking the village.

On the top of the hill it was quite chilly in the wind after being in the village; but the view was tremendous. There still wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I stuffed my chip paper into a crack between the stones and slipped down into the shelter of the wall. The sun was nearly down to the western horizon, the moorland just south of the viaduct and the mill where I’d been in the morning.

Thinking of that reminded me of the mood I’d been in in the morning: the aches to share, the depression. None of that now: I was quite at peace in the solitude and the sun. Until that minute, not thinking about my state of mind. I knew from experience that as long as I remained unattached, I’d spend a lot of my time in moods like that, but for the moment, I was at peace. I suspected that if I managed to remain unattached, the frequency and severity of such moods would gradually diminish. But then I thought of the emptiness of the coming evening, and imagined the ache to share whatever possibilities the morning might present; and I remembered Cathie at the Britannia, and hoped she’d be there this evening.

It was really too early to go to the Britannia: I couldn’t sit there for three or four hours, and anyway, I’d just had those chips. And there’d be plenty of light for an hour or so. But the cold was beginning to get through to me from the ground, and the world, lovely as it was, would be cold anywhere out of doors; and apart from wondering what to do with myself again, I seemed to be in a good mood. So I decided to go home for a couple of hours and do a bit of cleaning up. I thought I’d survive it, if I did it knowing what I was going to do for the remainder of the evening.

It wasn’t easy to decide which way to get to Quarryside from Raikeley; there wasn’t a direct route. I could either go back along Wood Lane into town, or along the tow path to the end of Falls Lane and across the fields; either way was a bit of a dog’s leg. And I didn’t particularly fancy fighting my way across the fields, with all the wet weather we’d had recently, even after the day’s sun. And now I’d mapped out my evening, it was suddenly seeming rather short, what with the walk home and all. But I didn’t fancy the dreary, familiar trek between town and Quarryside, not three times in one evening. So I set off down to the canal.

The sun went down behind the shoulder of the hill as I reached the tow path. There were a couple of kids playing ducks and drakes with some thick broken glass; doing surprisingly well considering the awkwardness of the angle into the water. Despite the short supply of missiles, they cheerfully let me have a try; I couldn’t make it skim at all, not even one bounce.

At Long Lane I decided to stay on the tow path and walk back along the old railway from the paper mill; the idea of the fields was becoming even less attractive with the diminishing light, and I could always cut my cleaning short by the odd half-hour. I realized that by now the library in Raikeley would be open, and that I could have spent the first part of the evening there, and then gone from there to the Britannia; but I’d keep on the way I was going now. I wondered if the kids were still there by the canal in the village, and I imagined them yelling, ‘Hey, mister, you forgotten something?’

Paper mill. Twice in one day. But I didn’t go back along the old railway line, I took the longer, more staid route along Falls Lane. As I was climbing Park Hill a girl I didn’t know came out of Rose Lane and passed me, walking fast without looking up; I had the strong feeling she was scared of me. There were lights on in the houses, but the street lights still weren’t on as I went into the passage down the side of my flat.

I’d judged my mood just about right: knowing that I was going out, doing the washing up was just a job, and I knew that with it done the flat wouldn’t feel so bad when I got back later. I even cleaned down the work surface in the kitchen, and emptied the rubbish from the kitchen and the living room. But I didn’t sweep up; I told myself that what was left of the evening wasn’t too long to sit in a café. But I spruced myself up before I went out more than I’d done in months.

There were a few people about as I walked into town, but nobody that I had more than a passing acquaintance with. I was beginning to feel a fool, going to a rendezvous with my own imagination. I imagined Cathie cutting me off short, curtly returning my book, or even denying its existence; or giving me enough rope to hang myself, and then laughing at me. I began to think of going into Andy’s and hoping that Tina might chat me up; and realizing that that was just as silly. If I went into Andy’s, I’d just sit in a corner and watch the world, hoping the world wouldn’t notice my immotivation.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I said to myself, or is it ‘faint heart never won fair lady?’ To the Britannia! An old man was selling newspapers on the corner of Northgate – it wasn’t Tom Green – and I bought one: I needed something to occupy myself if I had to sit around for a while on my own. Over the zebra, into the café, straight up to the counter – straight up to Cathie, Cathie Jordan.

‘Tea love please.’

‘Hello Pete. You left your book here yesterday, you know. I hope you don’t mind, I’ve been reading it. Here it is. Tea you said?’

‘Ta. Yes. Ta.’ Feeling tongue tied and going red. Spilling the tea in the saucer. Trying to carry a cup of tea, a book and a newspaper. Flustered.

Several customers. Same kid playing space invaders. Cathie Jordan, looking at me, I’m sure. Me, desperately trying not to look at her, trying to put my tea down, put my book down, put my newspaper down, drink my tea, not too fast, read my book, or perhaps read my paper.

God, am I glad June isn’t here now – or Jill for that matter. Imagine if they walked in just by chance at the moment! How would I react? How am I reacting just thinking about it?

I tried to find my place in my book – and discovered that there were two bookmarks! One of them was between the pages I’d read so many times; the other was a few pages before it. In failing biro was written on the unfamiliar bookmark,

‘Can I borrow it when you’ve finished it, please, Pete? Don’t lose my place.’

I could’ve kissed that bookmark. But I couldn’t look at Cathie. I couldn’t even look at the other customers; I dreaded to think what they thought of me. I was sure my face was as red as a beetroot.

Probably they didn’t even notice me. And I’m sure that if they did, they didn’t understand what was going on, much less care. But I couldn’t persuade myself of that at the time. So I read the next two pages about five times in the next half-hour.

Customers came and went. I heard Cathie’s voice making small talk with a dozen strangers and a few regulars. No-one knew; gradually I calmed down and began to look around. The space-invader kid had gone; the juke-box was silent. There were maybe a dozen people in the café, nearly all just drinking, but an elderly couple were eating beans on toast. They were talking softly and fast between mouthfuls, and were obviously having a very earnest discussion. There was a group of four, a middle-aged couple and a young couple. I could see the young couple holding hands under the table, and the young man was quite red. He looked very like the older man, who I guessed was his father. I didn’t often analyse things like that, but the co-incidence struck me and I nearly laughed aloud; and I suddenly felt a glow of sympathy for the fellow.

Cathie had her back to the café and I couldn’t make out what she was doing. She appeared to be concentrating on something on a work surface, but her hands weren’t moving and she seemed very still altogether. I was just realizing that maybe she was deep in thought; and that maybe I was staring at her; and that maybe she’d look up in a minute and catch me staring at her, and that therefore perhaps I’d better look away; when another customer came in and we both looked towards the door. There was nothing about the new arrival to hold my attention and I glanced back at Cathie; Cathie glanced at me at the same moment and our eyes met briefly before she began to deal with her customer. She smiled at me, and I tried to smile back; I was so self-conscious I felt I was grimacing and turning red again.

Then Cathie was serving and I was wondering how I could make my tea spin out a little longer, how long I could reasonably stay over one cup of tea with the café so unexpectedly full, and how on earth, and whether, I could face another trip to the counter to order something else, another encounter with Cathie, in front of all those people. I wasn’t hungry. How can one sit in a café just drinking cup after cup of tea? What do people think?

Do people even notice? Do I notice other people sitting about for ages over cups of tea? Only when I’m killing time myself.

I was calming down again, and deciding it was time for another cup of tea. And a piece of cake. Then try to read my paper: that would need less concentration than the book, because there’d be less continuity. I got up and went to the counter.

‘You don’t mind waiting a minute while I do this meal, do you, Pete?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Just a cup of tea, is it?’ Over her shoulder.

‘I’ll have a bit of Battenburg as well, please.’

‘Go and sit down, I’ll bring it to you, it’s okay.’

For some reason the situation seemed to be back in control again; I sat down and read my paper. Cathie prepared and delivered the meal, and then prepared two cups of tea and my bit of cake; I think she was going to come and sit with me. But she left one of the teas behind and just brought me mine, because yet another customer came in just as they were ready.

‘God, it’s busy tonight,’ she whispered as she put down my things.

I looked for the situations vacant columns in my paper. There were the usual ads for the armed forces. Surprisingly, there were no adverts for jobs abroad on shelters. Noticing that set me to wondering why there should be so many foreigners here doing building work, when we were exporting labour to build shelters elsewhere, and unemployment was so high here anyway. And then I thought that of course unemployment was high elsewhere anyway; but then why did other countries want to import labour to build shelters?

Maybe, I thought, it has something to do with security: there certainly isn’t much information about as to where exactly any English shelters are. Maybe the building work being done here by foreigners is really shelters, maybe they simply aren’t designed to be big enough for everybody, and only certain categories of people will be able to use them. Hard cheese, everybody else.

There weren’t any jobs suitable for me at all; not many altogether. I skipped through the rest of the paper, reading bits here and there, but it wasn’t really very interesting. I gave it to the man at the table behind me who’d been reading it over my shoulder. He was a bit embarrassed but grateful, and we had a short discussion, notable only for its triviality, about the dreadful state of the world. After a few minutes he looked at his watch and departed. I thought of myself with Tom Green the previous evening, and suspected that this fellow too was merely escaping, and chuckled inwardly. I felt a comradely benevolence towards him, that he could hardly have suspected. If he had, I realized, he would probably have felt patronized. Also, I’d made the situation embarrassing for him in the first place, which Tom hadn’t done to me.

Returning to my book, I actually managed to get into it, and was three parts finished when a touch on my shoulder alerted me. Cathie was saying that she was just closing up, her dad would be here in a minute, and she was sorry it’d been so busy and she’d not had time for a chat.

I was half across the zebra before I was fully back in the real world and realized that I’d rather rushed out, didn’t know what impression I’d just given Cathie; and was half-way up Market Street before I’d realized I’d not paid for my tea and Battenburg. I looked back, thinking that here was an excuse for a quick word to clear up my abrupt exit; but the café lights were out and two people I took to be Cathie and Mr Jordan were just disappearing behind Cohen’s on the corner of Market Street and Bridge Street. There’s a little clue as to where she lives, I thought, they cross the zebra and then turn down towards the canal. Then: some clue! That narrows it down to about a quarter of the town. I couldn’t really imagine what I’d do with the information anyway; I could always find her at the Britannia. But having had the thought, I slipped into the next phone box to look in the directory, hoping they were on the phone. No directory. So I rang directory enquiries, and felt a fool when I was told that there were two columns of Jordans, quite a lot of them in Burnfield. I didn’t have the gall to push the matter, saying which quarter of Burnfield, and I felt relieved it was all so anonymous.

Back at home I tried to finish my book before I went to bed, so I could lend it to Cathie the following day; but my thoughts were going round and round and I resolved to finish it in the morning.

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