Chapter 4

Thursday. Signing on day for Mike. Blowing a gale again. Spots of rain flying in the wind.

It had been very wet during the night. I was glad my flat was the ground floor of the house: most of the houses in this area of town had leaky roofs. Old Timothy upstairs was always complaining about it. Mike’s flat would be very damp when he got home, especially having been empty for ten days.

As I opened the door into the living room the warmth hit me: I’d left the gas fire on all night. I’d never be able to afford the bill when it came if I did that too often, and I’d get cut off. I turned it off and wondered what I could do in there for an hour or two while the room cooled down, so as not to waste the luxury of a warm room. I got myself some cereal and went back into the living room with it instead of eating it in the kitchen as usual, and then I decided I’d catch up with my mending. I darned a few socks and put new patches on my jeans, and put the buttons back on on a couple of shirts. I looked at the crutch of my old cords, and decided that they were past repair, by me at any rate. Patching material.

Then I read Geothermal Energy for a while and had another cup of tea. By that time it wasn’t so warm any more, and I started to think what I was going to do for the day. I remembered my resolution to go into the Britannia in the morning, and then to see Mike at half past two at the Employment Exchange. After that, there was no telling what might happen. If I was to be in the Britannia before it got busy for lunch, it was time I was on my way; but I still had to think of something to do for a couple of hours in the middle of the day. It looked like finding a quiet place to read; I didn’t want to remind the staff at the library of my existence just yet.

Half-way down Quarry Road I realized that I’d forgotten to bring the book to lend to Cathie again, and feeling that time was tight anyway, I ran back for it. Then I ran about half the way into town, but stopped running on Fieldhouse Road so I wouldn’t be out of breath by the time I got to the Britannia. The two lads I’d seen in the café on Monday night were working on the engine of the digger by the road works on Market Street. One of them looked up at me as I passed and grinned wryly,

‘Bloody thing’s broken down again! That’s twice this week. It’s just about ready for the scrap heap.’

I hoped he didn’t think I was rude; I didn’t stop for a moment as I wished them good luck.

Cathie was serving when I arrived, and there were three people in front of me. By the time I reached the counter there were another two behind me. Cathie was doing a meal and I was served by another girl. I’d seen her here before too, but I’d never paid much attention to café staff until the last few days. She evidently recognized me.

‘Hello love. What’s yours?’

‘Just tea for the moment, love, ta.’

‘Eighty pee.’ ‘Ta.’

‘Ta.’

I think Cathie recognized my voice. She looked round and smiled at me, then went back to her work.

There were already quite a lot of people. I had to take one of the island tables, which I didn’t like very much. I sat with my back to the door. But I could hardly sit there staring at Cathie, and with the café as crowded as it was, I didn’t think I could sit for ages over a cup of tea, reading a book. So I drank my tea fairly quickly and read a page and a half, and left, hoping to be free later on. I thought maybe I’d drift past in an hour or so and go in again if it wasn’t busy.

I wandered down Shipton Street to have a look in the Job Centre – it was just possible there might be some work, even if it was only labouring, or temporary, or both. But there was a look of dereliction about the place, and a smudgy pencilled note on the inside of the glass doors saying, ‘This function is now carried out entirely by the Employment Exchange.’ Wonderful. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to go there more than the once every four weeks they had to go to sign on. An oppressive sort of place.

At least now there were only two offices they could send you back and forth between if they wanted to harass you. Every cloud a silver lining.

Armed Forces Recruitment Office. Plush, inviting. But someone had managed to stick a little poster on the wall above their window, that they hadn’t removed yet, ‘Join the Armed Forces! Travel to exotic, distant lands! Meet exciting, interesting people! And KILL THEM!’ The wording was getting a bit stale with the years, but the poster had obviously not been there long. I wondered who’d put it there, and how long it would survive.

Town Hall. All the windows on the ground floor with bars, and frosted, wired glass; even so, many were cracked. First floor windows, high above the ground, large, clear and double glazed; giving a wonderful view of elaborately moulded ceilings with incongruous fluorescent lighting units. Cleaned stonework beginning to blacken again, with still-clean watercourses here and there making it look like shoddy concrete imitation.

Police station. Quite new – it had been brand new when I first came to Burnfield. Bas-relief cast concrete sculpture to a height of twenty feet, broken only by the glass-fronted foyer; topped with a glass-and-aluminium office block surrounded by a wide terrace.

On the corner of Bridge Street and Shipton Street, the Odeon. Now in four small studios. At least it hadn’t been turned into a bingo parlour like so many of them. ‘Man in a White Shirt’, ‘Hot Tip’, ‘After the Storm’, ‘Space Vampire’. I wished I could afford to see ‘After the Storm’: apparently it was quite something. I imagined that ‘Space Vampire’ would be well worth missing; but I couldn’t really imagine what the other two were all about.

Too soon to go back to the Britannia. Over the wall and down onto the tow-path; I couldn’t be bothered to cross Bridge Street, walk down the steps and go under the bridge. Past the backs of the Odeon, the Police station, the Town Hall, and International House. Under Shipton Street with the canal, and then up the spiral stairs onto the bridge of stairs over to the railway station. I had suddenly acquired a curiosity about when trains went where, I didn’t know why. There was a poster announcing that Burnfield was about to be electrified, and that the realignment of the track was almost complete and that soon the times to London would be cut by twenty minutes. Shame no-one could afford the tickets.

Unfortunately I couldn’t afford the timetable, either. ‘And that’s subsidized.’ No, there weren’t any little leaflets of times for individual routes. ‘They went out years ago.’ Just wallposters, around the station. ‘Or you can buy one of those to decorate your flat.’ Except that they cost almost as much as the timetable.

I couldn’t be bothered to memorize the wallposter; and it was by no means clear where the young couple had been going on Monday night, because they’d obviously been going to change trains somewhere and there wasn’t enough information on the poster to deduce anything. Purely a mental exercise, of course, but irritating to be thwarted.

Down Station Road and back into Bridge Street, the other side of the Britannia. Which was the main point of the detour via the station: if the café was busy, I could walk straight past to go to my private alley, and not have to double back. Thinking about my motives like that was illuminating and amusing; I couldn’t imagine anyone who might notice me doubling back, who wouldn’t be fully aware of my aimless wanderings anyway. Or who might care.

The Britannia was busier than ever. So straight on past and up Quebec Street. Down the little passage. I sat down with my legs dangling over the water and began to read. The sun was on the pages and I had to squint. It was sheltered from the wind there, and the sun was warm on my face and hands. I shut my eyes for a few moments to relieve the glare, and lifting my head up I could see a red glow through my eyelids. Warmth.

I dozed for a few minutes, and then a cloud passed over the sun and there was a sudden chill. It was much easier to read; Geothermal Energy had a chance again. For a few minutes, until the cloud had passed.

A couple of hours passed in alternate warm dozing and chilly reading; then it was a quarter past two and time to head for the Employment Exchange. I gathered my books up under my arm and set off. Quebec Street. Water Lane. Passing the end of Beckside I saw Mike coming down with his rucksack on his back, and shouted and then waited for him.

‘Hiya Pete!’

‘Hiya Mike! You seen Jill yet?’

‘Nope. Only just made it. I expect she’ll come to the dole to meet me. Haven’t you seen her?’

‘You don’t mean to tell me you hitched up from Somerset this morning?’

‘No! I stayed at Chrissy’s in Derby last night. Mind, I got down there in four and a half hours – but you can’t rely on things like that. Didn’t fancy being late and going through the Spanish Inquisition again. Damn nearly was, just coming from Derby.’

‘Don’t fancy coming into the office just now – I’ll wait for you out here.’

‘Okay – see you in a few minutes.’

I settled down to read again sitting on one of the benches at the top of the grass slope down to the canal.

‘Hello Pete.’ It was Jill. ‘Waiting for Mike?’

‘Yup. He went in a minute ago.’

‘You don’t mind if I wait with you, do you?’

‘Bloody hell! When did you ever need to ask that? Who do you think I am? Lord Muck or...’

‘All right! Keep your hair on. I wish I knew what was going on between you and June...’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. You just seemed ever so formal all of a sudden, as if you weren’t one of my best friends. I wish I knew what was going on between me and June myself. She ignored me completely in the street the other day, you know.’

‘You know, she says she wishes she knew what was going on too. She seems to think you want to finish with her.’

‘And I get the impression she wants to finish with me. I’m not sure if I want to finish with her or not.’

‘You know, that’s exactly what she says. She’s not sure if she wants to finish with you or not. It doesn’t seem altogether passionate! But I wish you’d at least be friends.’

‘Mmmm.’

Two of us, staring into the canal. Silence.

Jill reached out her hand and squeezed mine for a moment. I looked up and we exchanged smiles. Then both staring into the canal and silence again.

‘Hello you two! Lost your balloon? Cheer up! What are we going to do this afternoon?’ Mike came up behind the bench, put his arms round both of us and then turned to Jill and gave her a long kiss. I’d never felt awkward with them kissing before, but I did then.

‘Well, what are we going to do this afternoon?’ Mike.

‘I don’t know. I’ve arranged to meet June at the swimming pool at four,’ Jill said, ‘Why don’t you two come, too? Oh, come on Pete.’

‘Hey! Is there something I should know? Where is June, anyhow?’

Silence.

‘You two haven’t been and gone and had a row, have you?’

I didn’t know what to say. Jill looked at me for a moment, then said: ‘It’s worse than that. Neither of them knows if they want to split up or not. And they’ve not talked to each other since Sunday.’

‘Well you’d damn well better come to the pool with us then, Pete. Can’t have cold wars. Burnfield isn’t big enough.’

‘Okay, okay.’ I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. ‘Thanks for the ’lecky bill, by the way.’

At the swimming pool June seemed surprised to see me. She was friendly enough, but distant. She laughed and joked with both Jill and Mike, and I could tell that was only by an effort that Jill and Mike kept me involved at all. I felt a bit like a spare part and excused myself after only twenty minutes or so. Mike squeezed my arm under the water and said quietly, ‘Okay, mate. I’ll see you soon.’

I dried off and walked home, feeling wretched. I put on the gas fire and sat staring into it for ages. I thought about the many times we’d been a happy foursome. Then I thought about Cathie, but she seemed like a dream. I tried to read G.E. but it didn’t seem to make any sense at all. Then I thought about Tuesday morning, shafts of sunlight, and rain, and sun and shadow at the old mill, and aches to share; but the painful pleasure of longing had gone sour and was humiliatingly ridiculous.

But then, if longing is so ridiculous, so is feeling humiliated, and so is being depressed. But that thought didn’t help much.

It was dark before I realized that the nagging pain in my stomach was hunger not emotion, or not only emotion, and that I hadn’t eaten anything except a bowl of cereal all day. I tossed up in my mind between cooking myself something and walking into town and visiting the Britannia; but hunger, thrift and shyness won. Another fry-up. Then I washed up, mainly to occupy myself, not because there was any great accumulation.

By the time I’d finished I was feeling more or less on an even keel, a bit empty and melancholic, but okay; and I turned the fire off and went to bed with one of the S.F.s. It was a bit early still to be going to bed, but it was warm, and cheaper than the gas fire. I read the book from cover to cover, and it was two in the morning before I went to sleep.

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