Our Time Is Gone (58 page)

‘In hospital,' thought Anthony. ‘H'm! First I've heard about it.'

More and more people kept coming into ‘The Mare.' By now a considerable smoke fog had descended. The place stank of beer and tobacco. Each time the door swung open, a burst of music was heard, and then the shouts and laughing from the field at the back of the pub.

‘Going to have a ride on the gee-gees?' asked George.

‘Going to ride on everything to-day,' Anthony said. ‘I'm feeling good.'

‘Splendid! Bloody splendid, mate! We'll celebrate to-day, eh?'Sides, never know when we'll see each other again, you know—this blinking war and that.' He finished his drink. ‘
Sure
you won't have another, Anny?'

‘No! I'm not having any more. I'm only doing this for old times' sake. Suppose we go over now—soon's you've had your drink. I want to get amongst the crowd. I haven't been in a crowd for years. Years.'

‘Talking about crowds,' said George, ‘I've never seen anything like the crowds that watched ma Ragner's funeral. Lumme! You should have seen them.'

Anthony turned away, looked over the frosted half of the window. People were standing about in knots on the pavement. Then a crowded charabanc went by full of noisy shouting men and women. The crowds seemed to be pouring into Blacksea from all corners of the globe.

‘Thank you again, sirree,' said George, receiving his second pint of ale, but the bar-tender was quite indifferent to such thanks. It was like the dregs at the bottom of the glasses and the drips from the brass taps.

‘Aye,' broke in George, settling himself comfortably and giving his thigh a hearty smack with his cane. ‘That
was
a crowd. Must have been at least thirty thousand. It was like Coronation Day. But it wasn't a big do of a funeral, of course. Rather poor.'

‘I don't want to hear about funerals,' said Anthony. ‘To hell with funerals!' George's taste for the curious and the horrible did not appeal to Anthony. ‘Besides, that's all done with now. Over and done with.'

George shrugged his shoulders. ‘As you please,' he said with an air of sudden resignation. ‘As you please. But I thought you'd be interested because that feller who used to come to your house was at it. Aye! He had the chief coach. It was a muggy funeral really,'cept there were lots of flowers. Coffin piled with'em! But you oughta seen his face. Hang me, what was his bloody name? Corkey—Corkhill, cock-a-doodle-bloody-something. What
was
the chap's name? Right on the top of me tongue.' He began scratching his chin.

‘Oh, I don't know,' Anthony said, showing impatience now. He wanted to be off.

The thirteen-year-old watched him, the proprietor watched him. Didn't seem to be drinking anything. Funny for a lively-looking sailor to be sitting like that.…

‘You mean Corkran, the fellow who used to call at our house. You mean Mrs. Ragner's woman,' Anthony said, with the feeling that if he hadn't said it this very moment George would have gone on the whole day about it.

Well, there it was! He hated thinking about it. The whole business had only one effect upon him. It numbed. But it was over. It was a long time ago. This was new living—there was Joan to go back to in the evening. He knew what to expect from George. That young man liked that sort of thing. It was like eating—an appetite. It was the atmosphere of the
Police News
, and the
Undertaker
journals made manifest. The funerals of the murdered attracted no less than the victims of accidents. George Postlethwaite wasn't his father's son for nothing. Anthony watched him swigging away at his beer. How strong he looked, how healthy, how cheery! Anthony was on his feet, wanting to go.

‘Just a minute! Corkran! That's the fellow. Come and sit down, man. What's all the bloody hurry about? Corkran. That's him! I wonder what's become of him? Ever hear of your brother now? Wonder how he likes the gaol life. Poor beggar. Aye. Lumme! Fancy me forgetting the man. God love me! Charlie, you should have seen him the morning they buried her. He was the chief mourner. He was sitting in an open carriage surrounded by flowers. You should've seen him. And it
would
be raining, of course! Pouring and windy. Lumme! Aye well, I was as close to that carriage as you are to me and I got a rare good look at him. Everything he had on was new. New blocker, new tie, new collar, new suit, even had gloves on, and his whiskers were shining. But he was fond of his whiskers. Aye, well everybody stared at him. You couldn't help it. I mean he looked such a silly-looking bastard really. You had to laugh!
Really
you had. Should'a seen the look on his face. He wasn't exactly smiling, and he wasn't exactly grinning, and he certainly wasn't crying like mourners generally do. No! Be damned I was as close to him as I am to you, and I give him a bloody good hard look. And d'you know he liked it! Fact. You could tell he liked it. He was enjoying himself. And you know the way he had of looking at you. I used to watch him at your door. You know—eyes half shut sort of thing. Well, that was how he looked. A lot of people laughed as he went past. You just couldn't help it. There was one or two wreaths on her coffin, but you'd think it was him going to be buried,
really
. He had
all
the flowers. But he was a caution that feller was. He heard them chattering all around, and the police saying “Keep back—keep back.” And he knew people was staring and laughing. Enjoying themselves, you might say. But did he care? Did he hell! He didn't give a damn about nobody! He loved it. I sometimes wonder what became of that feller. Lord, he was queer! I remember one time I went up to Banfield Road with your brother. Should've seen him then. Not half a lad. Hair with a greasy quiff, jersey on the wrong way, rope shoes, no socks, and purring whiskers. Half a monk and half a boarding-house keeper. Aye. He was a caution, he was.'

Anthony listened without interruption. Well, that seemed the end of that. Thank heaven it was finished with. Perhaps they might now get out of this pub and go and enjoy themselves. He slapped George on the back.

‘Come on,' he said, and George didn't know whether he was being indignant or was just joking, but Anthony's manner had of a sudden changed. ‘Come on,' he said again, grabbing George's arm. ‘What d'you suppose I've got three days' leave for after nearly eighteen months at sea. Just to listen to you talking about a bastard named Corkran. Let's get out of here! I came to enjoy myself, not to sit hanging my head in a boozer.' He swung an arm on George's shoulder.

‘Sure you won't have one more glass?' asked George. It was almost appealing.

Anthony shook his head. ‘No,' he said, ‘and you won't either! Come on, let's go.'

And then he dragged George almost headlong across the floor. The thirteen-year-old winked again, but apparently too late. The door swung back. They were gone.

For a minute or two Anthony and George stood in the middle of the road. People streamed up and down the pavements. Groups stood here and there. Children ran up and down the road. Horses trotted along and everybody was talking. Holly Street sounded as though it were flooded with magpies. Behind ‘The Mare' itself stentorian orders rang out. The music blared forth, and sometimes they were almost desperate blares as though the engine that was making it was slowing down or perhaps getting tired of its job.

George looked across to the waste ground. Boats swung in the air, girls screamed, the horses went merrily round, the football kept landing into the net with a resounding plop like a cork bursting from a champagne bottle. The whole orchestra of sound shook the air of Blacksea. It animated Anthony and George to proceed. At the moment they were making plans.

‘Let's try the boats first,' said George. ‘Shall we?'

‘All right! But the horses—and then what about hoop-la! Come on.'

They went across the road, stood outside ‘The Mare ‘for a second or two and George's eyes were on the swing-door. It looked ominous to Anthony.

‘Look here,' he said truculently, ‘if you haven't satisfied your thirst, then go in again. But I'm going off right now to the fair,' and he swung round and walked away.

‘All right! Lumme! You
are
touchy, Fury. I was just thinking about something,' and he caught up with Anthony.

This time they went straight across to the fair. The ground was choked with people, and the two young men were not slow to notice the large number of girls whose pastime consisted of floating quite aimlessly from booth to booth, and stall to stall. They never stood for long. Nothing interested them for more than a minute. And they watched everybody.

‘Just look at them,' remarked George, ‘out for a bloody good time. Suppose we pick up two tarts and take them in the boats. Tarts like them boats. Like being swung up in the air. It's a rare do. Hair flying, skirts blowing. Come on.'

‘You can have a tart,' said Anthony, ‘but I'm having a boat all to myself.'

‘Lumme! You are a one! Seem to have got all stuck up since you were in the Navy. Come on, mate! One tart's no good, you want two each. Poor little bitches. It's the only chance they get in a twelve-month to see any man. Quite a lot of khaki here, I notice. Haven't seen a sailor yet, have you? Here we are! Look, there's a boat emptying now. Come on and look,' added George, his eyes like bright buttons beginning to dance in his head. ‘Look, there's two nice tarts. Hey?' he called, then cooed, ‘Coming on, yes—no?'

The young ladies could not have been more than seventeen. Their natures were obviously antagonistic, one was demure and lowered her eyes when Anthony looked at her, though he was really more attracted by her hat than by her face. When he looked at a hat it was always Joan's face he saw under it. But the other had a bold look, and laughed in George's face.

‘No tricks.'

‘Well, I'm danged!' exclaimed George. ‘Hear that, Fury? No tricks, she says.'

George went up to the girl and tickled her under the right arm. She began to giggle. Anthony looked at the other girl. They smiled at each other now.

‘Like a swing?' asked Anthony, quite indifferent to the easy familiarity of George and his girl. The demure one looked out at him from under her eyelids.

‘Love it,' she said, and immediately linked arms with Anthony.

‘Good, all in,' cried George. ‘All in, me lads and lassies. Man the boat.'

They began settling themselves in the boat.

‘I'll swing,' Anthony said.

‘No, let him swing,' the girls said in unison. ‘You sit with us, sailor-boy.'

‘I'll swing,' Anthony said.

‘Let
him
swing.' They looked appealing at George, who now had seated himself comfortably between them. Rather liking it, he was loath to move. He looked at Anthony, standing up in the boat, hands on the ropes.

‘Oh, go on,' said the bolder girl. ‘Go
on
. We want you to swing. You're stronger than him.'

‘Ooh?' said George. ‘Eh?'

But Anthony had begun to swing slowly, for time was short, and the man had just released the boat. They only had five minutes for swinging.

‘Oh,
do
swing,' said the demure girl, who now got up. ‘Come and sit in his place, sailor,' she said. ‘Come on,' and she began pushing George out of his place.

‘Half a mo! Who d'you think you're shoving? Get out of the boat. Go on.'

‘Here,' cried Anthony. ‘Come and swing it, or else we'll all get out. You swing. Then next round I'll swing.'

George staggered to his feet. He wasn't angry—yet he wasn't quite pleasant. He was liking the position he had. It was only at fairs that you could have two tarts. One each side. He staggered and stumbled to where Anthony stood.

‘All right! Take your seat, Fury,' he said, and facing the girls he gripped the ropes. He glared at them, saying: ‘Right! I'll swing you. I'll show you how to swing too!' and then still holding the ropes and leaning so far forward that he could have touched their faces he said: ‘And we'll soon know who you are,
and
you too! Yes. I'll swing you all right. Better hang on to them, Fury,' he cautioned. ‘And you'll find them ticklish too.'

The boat moved, swung forward. George dug his heels into the wood, spread out his shoulders, and then started to swing in earnest.

The boat swung higher and higher.

Anthony laughed, his arms round the girls. ‘Swing her higher, George,' he shouted into the din.

The ropes began to creak. George looked grim, nodded and put his back into it. Now the madly swinging boat seemed to be aiming for the sky. It swung madly, frantically, the ropes hissed, George's face became crimson. The girls' hats blew off and fell to the ground under the boat. Their hair began to blow across their faces.

‘Ooh!' they cried. ‘Ooh!'

George answered these by really desperate exertions, all the Postlethwaite muscles had opened out, were in full cry. His chest swelled, his breath came hard. His knees had the even rhythm of pistons and they bent and swayed outwards. The boat swung higher and higher.

George cried—laughed—managed to stammer into the wind: ‘Haven't opened out yet,' and then Anthony's collar and lanyard were blowing crazily round his head.

‘Higher I go! Higher I go!'

‘Ooh!' shrieked the girls. ‘Ooh!' and they grabbed Anthony securely round the waist.

George shouted into the wind, ‘And I know who you are. And I know where you come from.'

But for all the notice they took he might have been addressing space, where indeed his remarks were already being blown. Yet he was determined to be heard. On the swing up George watched the skirts, and watched the legs.

‘Your judy's got no drawers on,' he shouted in Anthony's face. ‘I can see all her leg. Up she comes. Down she goes. By heck, I'll swing you into Paradise!'