A Man of his Time. Alan Sillitoe
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Название: A Man of his Time
Автор: Alan Sillitoe
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Историческая литература
isbn: 9780007439980
isbn:
Fully turned-up gas mantles gave a whitened aspect to the room – or as much as tobacco allowed – every face and figure clear, which Ernest liked because the only god he halfway respected was that of fire and illumination. He allowed Mary Ann to hold his hand surreptitiously, while observing the mob gathered at their splicing. She said she had been in love with him from the moment he first walked into the pub, that she had never loved any other man, nor ever would.
Her father Charles Tokins had come from St Neots on the train. Tall and soundly built, and looking young for his age, with a well-shaped black beard, he had started work in an iron foundry as a boy. The family had left County Mayo in the 1840s to escape hunger and destitution caused, Mary Ann said – and Ernest saw no reason to disbelieve her – by the wickedness of the government in London.
Ernest went through the crowd, to hear what Tokins was saying to his father. ‘I’d had enough of getting myself dirty working in the foundry, so I rented a workshop to repair penny-farthings and tricycles. I’d had a tricycle a few years, and knew others who had them. There’s plenty of flat land around where we live, but the roads aren’t in good repair, and a lot of people don’t know how to look after their machines. When one breaks down they can’t get it mended properly, so not only do I do it, but I’ve started buying and selling as well. I get new ones at a fair discount from the manufacturers at Coventry, and do enough trade to keep us quite nicely. We prosper, in other words.’ He drank his whisky, as if to get breath. ‘You can’t beat the bicycle for getting from place to place. I read in the newspaper the other day that somebody rode on a Humber from London to York in twenty-four hours.’
‘They make Humbers near here.’ Thomas at last got a word in. ‘At Beeston, a couple of miles away.’
Tokins looked at the ash on his cigar, and gave it permission to fall. ‘He even beat Dick Turpin on Black Bess. The machine didn’t die when it got there, either.’
‘I wonder if he could have done the same distance the day after,’ Ernest said. ‘His legs wouldn’t have been much good by then.’
‘I’m making money out of the trade.’ Tokins was annoyed at the interruption. ‘That’s all I know. If you want to come and live in St Neots, Ernest, I’ll set you on. Your father tells me you’re a fine blacksmith. You’d soon pick up the trade, and be an asset to us. I’d guarantee a better wage than if you stay here. Times are changing.’
There must have been talk between Tokins and his father, but Ernest would jump for no man. ‘They always were.’
Tokins saw him as too opinionated ever to get anywhere. ‘If you want to make the move, let me know. Mary Ann wouldn’t be unhappy, living close to us.’
Tokins wanted his daughter back where he could keep an eye on her, and would be interfering in their lives in no time, so it was a cold idea as far as Ernest was concerned. In any case what man would want to work for his wife’s father? It was bad enough sweating for your own. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, not caring to make things difficult for Mary Ann.
He went back to his wife, as if to be sure nobody had run her away after it had taken him so long to win her. Her dignity and calm beauty were dreamlike when she came to him from laughing with her bridesmaids. The step she had taken would never lead back to the happier days of her youth, Mrs Lewin thought as she too looked at her.
Youngsters looked in the open door to see what he did, and they’re welcome to, Burton thought. They stand all clean in a row like so many sparrows on a wall, staring as if I deal with magic, and when I look up they’ve gone to a place that’ll teach them how to read and write, which they’ll learn if they’re sharp enough, though I’ve managed well without it, sometimes better than a lot of fools who think they’ve learned all there is to teach.
Still, children might end up with more magic than I did, who never went to school because my father needed me, young as I was, two more hands making a difference, so he can’t be blamed for me not knowing my letters. There weren’t as many schools built then as there are now, but you can never blame your parents for anything, and those I’ve heard in the pub who whine against them have no pride, no backbone to stand on their own feet and blame themselves.
My father gave me a trade that’s like gold, you can go anywhere with it, turn your hand to anything. There are smithies all over the place, at every pit and a lot of factories, wherever you go you’ll find one. Each village has enough work to keep more than one family, so nobody owes me anything and I owe not a penny to them.
He took a bar of iron from the mound of heat, shook and tapped the sparks away. Like Vulcan or Tubal-Cain, his arms were bare, his eyes alert and, lean and agile as he had always been, and still was at forty-eight, battered the iron to his will. The world did not exist while he made the first bend of the shoe, saw that it was clean, and brought the two prongs to the right distance apart. He drove the holes fully through, and when the shoe came steaming bright blue from the bucket and the job was finished he looked up at the ever-familiar thin smoke lanced by light and fighting its way through the solitary square window.
The forge, on a lane leading to the church at Lenton, was similar in size and structure to the one in Wales. Work never done, he set to making another, Oliver his eldest son of twenty-three standing by as his striker, a man as well trained as Burton at that age, and much like him in physique, though a trace of sensibility had blended into his features from Mary Ann, and given a more vulnerable aspect.
Oswald, the second son, tackled the bellows with the dignified attentive face of a Norman warrior at the Battle of Hastings. Talk was impossible in the swinging of arms, the clatter of hammers, and the stench of coke, explaining the taciturnity of smiths who worked for hours without speaking.
Burton took a silver snuff box from his apron pocket and tapped a small khaki mound of dust onto the back of his hand, held it under his nose, drew it sharply into one nostril and then the other. A moment’s stillness was followed by a twitch at the face signifying a violent inward sneeze rocking the system as the drug took effect, clearing his head so that for a few seconds the world showed in greater detail and more vivid colouring. At the sound of a customer leading a horse to be shod he went outside.
Oswald put the hammer his brother had used on a bench by the wall, then took tobacco from his pouch to roll a cigarette. He and Oliver had been at school till they were thirteen, so could read and write, but they feared Burton, who would be sure to remind them with his fists if a mistake was made in their work. On the other hand, should a good job be turned out, he would give no sign of satisfaction.
Glad to see the back of him, Oliver wiped his face with a rag, but went out to forestall any shout that he would be needed. A locomotive hauling coal wagons through a nearby cutting shrieked like a glutted kitehawk sighting more offal, so frightening the horse being shod that it broke free and scattered a couple of bystanders.
Burton pushed the shoeing smith aside, took the reins and brought the head close, and looked in the eyes shimmering with panic. He stroked down the grain and, drawing breath, exhaled a warmth of intimate snuff-smelling reassurance up the nostrils to calm its heart, in the way his father had shown him even as a child, who had been drilled in how to do it by his father. How many generations such СКАЧАТЬ