A Man of his Time. Alan Sillitoe

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       FOUR

      Young Burton was back – a year away, but time had altered him. Watch and chain looped across his waistcoat with a sovereign attached; a nick of white handkerchief in the lapel pocket like the wingtip of a bird attempting to hide there. Crossing the road so as not to tread in dog or horse droppings, he was aware of looking his best – a flick at the red rose snapped from a bush in the garden. The May evening was warm, but cap and waistcoat were part of his renown as a neat and formal dresser. He would have smiled to know that never again in his life would he appear in more impressive aspect – while in no way believing it.

      Saturday night in the taproom was the busiest night of the week, an ant heap turned upside-down in the clamour for pots and jars, so he couldn’t get close enough to Mary Ann and put the question. Back straight and head high, he overlooked everyone in the bar, and saw what he wanted to see. The whiff of home ale dominating the odour of gaslights made it seem as if supping a different brew all last year had been a dream.

      Fred the barman drew his tankard, Mary Ann busy at the far end pulling the smooth white-handled pumps with her lovely young arms. Nakedness through the shirt came with a clarity that made his peg stir, and her smile in his direction gave no need to wonder who it was for.

      You couldn’t ask a woman to marry you among so much riffraff, so he enjoyed slaking a thirst for home ale built up during the time in Wales, knowing it better to put the question at dinnertime, in the middle of the day, when less people would be around to nudge your elbow and drown private business with their clatter.

      A question that had to wait wouldn’t spoil any the less for that, and while he was nodding to those who knew him, or thought they did, or passing a few words with those he considered had a right to acknowledgement, he stayed by the bar to observe Mary Ann at a distance, satisfied by glances which he thought buttered by a smile. He disliked the notion of being back at his father’s forge on Monday and lucky to see sixteen shillings a week counted out of the leather bag for his labour, but it would have to do till something better was found.

      In the morning Mary Ann would be chaperoned to church by Mrs Lewin, and if he went he could glimpse her and maybe flash a wink during the sermon or between hymns, but he’d prefer to fry in hell than enter such a place, though when he and Mary Ann were married it would be a forceput, because there was no other way of getting such a woman into bed for life.

      She wouldn’t go to church after they were married because there’d be too much caring for him and bringing up a family, such a responsibility on his part as well that he called dilatory Eli for another pint, his last of the evening since he was watching the coins he would surely need for the time when every bun cost tuppence, and a bit more than that with a lot of little buns running about on two legs.

      Tomorrow he would work in the garden to please his father, but in any case he liked attending to the rows of beans and peas and potatoes while the church bells rang, knowing he would never jump to their musical summons and join in the prayers and hear the parson spout about what could have nothing to do with him. His mother went once a month but what could you expect from a woman, though there were plenty of men there as well, hypocrites to the bone.

      Outside it was almost dark, the windows a protective sheen through which nothing could be seen. If he was to be up at five he would need sleep, though garden work or not he left his bed at that hour every day, always had and always would, not like those who said they couldn’t do without a lie-in on Sunday, not realizing that you would get sleep enough in the cosy box of the grave when the time came, and that if you craved it while still alive you were already more than halfway there.

      He had asked her twice, and at twenty-one she ought to know her own mind. ‘I’m happy here,’ she said. ‘It’s a good situation, and I don’t know what Mrs Lewin would do without me.’

      ‘It’s me I want you to marry, not Mrs Lewin.’

      ‘I know, and if I marry anybody it will be you.’

      Such uncertainty wasn’t good enough. He only wanted a plain yes. ‘I’ve chosen you.’

      ‘I can tell you have. But you can’t choose me like you would a horse, or a piece of iron you work with.’

      ‘I know what I’m doing.’

      ‘You haven’t said you love me yet.’

      ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I didn’t.’

      ‘But you’ve got to say it.’

      ‘I’m saying it now. I’ve never loved anybody but you, so you can give me a yes as soon as you like.’

      Mrs Lewin came into the bar; Ernest was attracted by the high forehead, dark hair pulled back, the interesting mould of her lips, and middling bust under a striped shirt fastened at the neck with a brooch of amber. He wouldn’t have minded sliding into her, widow or not, though she must be nearing forty. Her luscious brown eyes looked at them. ‘Mary Ann, I’d like you to go to the kitchen and make some bread – that is, if Mr Burton will allow you.’

      The ‘mister’ and her smile softened his annoyance, and he wondered whether he wouldn’t do better with her, except she wouldn’t have him in a million years, and he didn’t fancy running a pub.

      ‘I still can’t make up my mind,’ Mary Ann told him.

      ‘Let me know when you can, then,’ he said off-handedly, and noted the lift of Emma Lewin’s eyebrows before walking away, telling himself she can think what she likes, as well.

      ‘He’s a bit of a devil,’ she said to Mary Ann as he closed the door. ‘But I suppose every woman likes a devil.’

      A state of uncertainty wasn’t for him. He’d never lived like that, and didn’t see why he should. When the hammer hit the anvil it always bounced up for another blow. He wanted her, and would have her, so the only solution was to go on asking, though he let a fortnight go by in case she thought him in too much of a hurry.

      She haunted his waking dreams, which could be dangerous in his sort of work. Auburn hair flowed over naked shoulders, her eyes enchanting him, a lovely young woman in season, with outstretched arms and saying come to me, there’s no other man I want. Her face would shock its way before his eyes, taunting with a prospect to last a lifetime.

      He left his pie and hot tea at the forge, hungry only for what had to be done. George and his father wouldn’t mind. They would eat the lot. There were fewer people in the pub at midday, though had it been packed he wouldn’t have cared. The usual greetings were followed by a call for ale, not so much to swamp his thirst as to see the working of her arms, which would be better employed in a house they’d one day live in. He was at a disadvantage in his smithing clothes, but couldn’t help that. She must take him as she found him. Her finger traced the small print of a newspaper. ‘I’ve come to ask you again,’ he said, not waiting for her to look up.

      She glanced from the advertisement СКАЧАТЬ