A Kind of Loving (28 page)

There's nothing official and Conroy doesn't say a dicky bird, but on Friday of the week after this Jeff Lewis goes round the
offices with a box and a sheet of paper collecting money for Con
roy's leaving present. It's a good collection to say Conroy's not everybody's best friend, and even old Hassop coughs up half a quid. We all say it wouldn't have been more than two bob, like
all the rest of us put in, though, if Lewis hadn't been crafty
enough to have this sheet of foolscap with all the names signed on
it and how much they've given.

A week after this Conroy leaves. He spends nearly all afternoon
walking round the Works saying so long to all the blokes he
knows down there, and then about five we have a little ceremony
up by Hassop's office and Conroy's presented with a matching
fountain pen and propelling pencil set. Hassop makes a little
speech about how much Conroy's going to be missed and every
body's embarrassed and wishing he'd belt up because we know
he doesn't mean a word of it. There's Conroy's name in gold
letters on the pen and pencil and it seems to touch him when he gets them. He swallows a time or two and then manages to say,
"Thanks very much, lads. Bloody good of you.'

And that's all. Five minutes later he's got all his books and drawing tackle in a little attache case and he's ready for off.

He comes and holds his hand out to me.

' So long, then, young Browny.'

' So long, Conroy. All the best.'

'Watch out for the women, lad; and go easy on the beer.'

'I'll see to it.'

"That's the ticket. And
Nil illegitimum.'

'What's that?'

'Nil illegitimum carborundum,'
Conroy says. 'Don't let the
bastards grind you down.'

I'm laughing. 'I'll watch it.'

And then he's away, and the queerest thing is this lump in my
throat like a bird's egg seeing him go out of the door. I've only just got to know Conroy, the other Conroy under the brag and
bluster, and I think we might have been good mates. I sit on my
buffet and look at his empty board, I look at Lewis
and Rawly
and Whymper and the rest. It's not going to be the same without
old Conroy. Somehow it hasn't been the same lately anyway. I fiddle about with my scale. I can't concentrate any more today,
I'm a bit fed-up all round and I wonder if a change of job
mightn't do
me
good.

IV

In the meantime there's this business of Ingrid. I've seen her
three or four times since the Party and every time I leave her I
think that's the last time and I don't care if I never set eyes on
her again. Then one day I'll look at her and get this feeling and
we're off again. There's no love in it as far as I'm concerned and
I can think that I don't much like her even when I'm all het
up to get her out again. And I feel rotten about it. I feel lousiest
when I've just left her. I think then I should tell her just how it is
and I don't think it's, fair I should take her out like this. But I
never do, because just then I don't want to go deep into things
and start explaining. And it's easy when I'm wanting her to tell
myself that she wants me and she'd rather have me this way than
not at all. It's a mess.

CHAPTER 2

I

I
arrive
at the shop one Saturday morning and find Henry
standing outside with the door still shut and no sight of Mr Van Huyten.

'I don't think he was feeling too good yesterday,' Henry says
when I ask him what's up. 'He was out in the rain earlier in the week and he thought he'd caught a chill.'

'Who'll be looking after him?'

'He'll have to look after himself,' Henry says, 'He has a
woman coming in to do for him two or three times a week, but
he lives on his own.'

Poor old geezer! I know how it is when you have flu and you
want coddling. 'Why, he could flake out,' I tell Henry, 'and
nobody 'ud be any the wiser.'

Henry strikes a match and lights a dokka. "That's what it's like
when you're old and on your own in the world.'

Well, I don't know what to say to this. I can't remember it
happening before. You know Mr Van Huyten's old but you kind
of never think of him falling ill or dying or anything.

' Well what are we goinna do? We can't stand here all morning.
There'll be customers arriving afore long.'

Henry gives a nod. 'And I've a couple of sets to deliver...' He
studies a minute, then he says, 'I'd better go up and see what's
doing.'

'Want me to come?'

'No need. I shan't be long. I really ought to get them sets
delivered, if nothing else.' He goes over to the van, which he's
had at home overnight.

'Does it mean the shop'll have to stay shut ail day?'

'It did the last time he was badly,' Henry says. "There was nobody else to look after it.'

'Well there is now,' I tell him. 'Look, Henry; tell him I can
manage. He can't shut Saturday; it's his best day. Look at
the trade he'll lose. It might mean thirty or forty quid on records
alone.' I grab Henry's arm as he's climbing into the van, 'Tell
him we can manage, Henry. You can demonstrate the sets while I look after the counter. You can always leave the repairs a day.'

Henry chucks his dog-end away as he gets into the cab. 'I'll
see what he says.'

He's away half an hour and I'm on eggs all the time, walking
up and down in front of the shop .and thinking he won't be
telling Mr Van Huyten right and I should have gone and talked
to him myself. It nigh breaks my heart to think of the shop being
shut and all that trade being turned away.

Once a middle-aged bloke comes up to the door and tries the
handle. 'Aren't they open today?'

'In about half an hour,' I tell him. 'Mr Van Huyten's poorly
but we'll be open in about half an hour if you can come back then.'

He studies a minute. 'It's my daughter,' he says. 'It's her
birthday next week and she's mad keen for one o' these long-playing radiograms. I thought I'd surprise her like ... I didn't
know whether to come here or try Norton's. Their winder's full
of 'em ... televisions an' all
'

'We can fix you up,' I tell him. 'We've got a good selection in
our inside showroom - H.M.V., K.B., Bush ...' I feel like grab
bing his arm and chaining him to the door till Henry gets back.

The bloke nods. 'Aye, well... I'll just walk up the road and
call back later.'

I can see him slipping away to Norton's and being roped in
by that horrible flash type who waits on there. Just then Henry
draws up in the van. I say to the bloke, 'If you'll wait just another
minute ...' and jump at Henry as he opens the cab door and
gets out.

'What does he say?'

'He says okay, we've to open up an' do the best we can. He
wasn't too keen on it at first.'

I'm grinning all over my face. 'We've got a customer already. Gimme the key.'

I open the door and ease this cove in before he gets any more
ideas about going somewhere else. Me and Henry show this bloke
the lot, both in the shop and the back room, and when I give
Henry the nudge he starts blinding him with gen about input
and output and baffles and speakers and I don't know what else.
Neither does this bloke but you can see Henry impresses him and
he's thinking he's come to a shop where they know what they're
at anyway.

After about twenty minutes of this the chap settles on an
H.M.V. console job with
V.H.F.
radio, and I start to give the patter about hire purchase and what not; and this is where I
nearly slip up because I've weighed this cove up wrong. He just stands there for a minute or two listening and then he brings this dirty great roll of notes out of his pocket and says, 'I'll pay cash.'

Just like that. My hands are trembling so much I can hardly
count the money.

'When can you deliver?' he says when I've made his receipt
out.

'Any time,' I tell him.

'Righto.' He writes something on a bit of paper and gives it to me. 'You deliver to this address next Wednesday morning. Not before, mind. I want it there on the day.'

I take a quick butcher's at the name on the paper. 'We'll attend
to it, Mr Wainright, don't worry.' I come round the counter and
walk to the door with him. 'Thank you very much, sir. Good morning.'

As soon as the door's shut I dash into the back place to Henry. He's got his overall on now and tinkering inside a TV set.

'Seventy-four guineas, Henry. Seventy-four bloody lovely
guineas. Just wait till we tell Mr Van Huyten about this. If we
only sell a couple of packets of needles all the rest of the day
it's been worth opening for.'

Henry's poking a screwdriver into the innards of this set.
He nods. 'Not bad,' he says. 'A pity it can't last.'

I give up and go back into the shop.

Course we sell more than a couple of packets of needles. Before
long the rush starts and the fans are crowding me at the counter and I'm whipping record boxes down right and left and ringing
up the old sales in the till. By the time we shut up and I start
off'to' Mr Van Huyten's with the key, I'm dog-tired. But happy.

II

Mr Van Huyten's playing Brahms on the gramophone when I get there. He shushes me as he lets me in and I sit down arid wait while the music's finished. I think Brahms is Mr Van Huyten's
favourite composer. He told me once that Brahms
might not be the greatest composer who ever lived but nobody
ever wrote music that
sounded
more like great music should sound.
It all sounds much of a muchness to me. No beat, no melody, and
it goes on and on from now to Kingdom come.

Well after I've been sitting there about three hours this piece
finishes and Mr Van reaches out and knocks the gram off. I've
hardly said a word up to now and he waits for all the news. I ask
him how he is first and he says he's not really poorly on himself
but he's got a chill and he thought it wisest to stay at home today.
I tell him about the radiogram we flogged and show him the details of the day's trade where I've written it all down on a bit
of paper.

He says very good, very good, a few times, nodding his head,
and I can tell he's pleased.

'You see it was worth opening for, Mr Van Huyten,' I say.
'I was on eggs thinking you'd tell Henry not to bother.'

He looks at me from where he's sitting in this big old wing-chair by the fire. 'It was important to you that the shop should open today, then, Victor?'