A Man of his Time

  ‘I never thought you would lie to me,’ he said calmly, looking back towards the station. She knew who he would see. ‘So that’s how it is?’

  Burton, bowler hat at a non-caring angle, cigarette still burning, went downhill towards the river.

  ‘I knew that was the case.’ His throat closed as if to choke him. ‘It was a nightmare I couldn’t believe in.’ He clamped a fist tight at his side, because a son of Burton knew better than to hit a woman. ‘Why did you do that to me?’

  The day had started in the bedroom at Matlock, when Burton’s long body had leaned over her, and she was so happy when he came into her, but she should have known it would lead to this. Tears burning like vinegar, she wanted to run back to the station and fall under a train. ‘I don’t know. I wish I hadn’t.’

  She walked away, but he followed, stopping so suddenly he knocked into her. ‘Is it him you love, or me?’

  ‘Don’t touch me.’ When her hat fell lopsided she put it quickly back in place, steeling herself into dignity, holding down her sorrows and regrets. ‘Leave me alone. How can I love anybody?’

  He walked so that she would never catch up, supposing she wanted to, to soften her distress. She was a scourge, and he wasn’t the man to relish pain. Any talk of what she and his father had been up to would be too sickening to hear.

  THIRTEEN

  Burton stood in the doorway hoping for an afternoon breeze to dry his sweat. Three idlers watched Oswald shoeing a placid grey carthorse.

  ‘They’re calling up the Territorials,’ a man said from behind his newspaper.

  ‘The queue at the drill hall stretched halfway down Derby Road this morning,’ said the other man, who looked too old for soldiering. ‘They won’t get me. I’ve got a family to keep. But they say it’ll be over by Christmas, anyway.’

  Burton’s sceptical grunt said: ‘Which one?’

  ‘Anything’s better than staying around here and sweating your tod off for bogger-all,’ a youth of eighteen said. ‘At least in the army you get beer money and a suit on your back.’ He looked at his feet. ‘And a new pair of boots as well.’

  You couldn’t even waste compassion on such stupidity. ‘If you still haven’t gone in six months,’ Burton said, ‘come to me, and I’ll give you a pair of boots.’ But he knew he was on a winner, because the damned fool would go.

  ‘A shilling a day,’ the family man said, ‘and they’ve got you body and soul. You wouldn’t really sign up, would you, Ken?’

  ‘Half the lads in our street have gone already,’ the youth replied. ‘Some of the married men as well.’

  ‘How many do you think will come back?’ Burton asked.

  ‘I’ll see France, won’t I?’

  ‘For all the good it will do you. Only fools enlist.’

  Ken didn’t like the opinion of a man over twice his age. ‘Lots of people are waiting to jump into my job at the brewery, so I shan’t be missed.’

  Burton tapped Oswald on the shoulder. ‘Finish what you’re doing, then we’ll lock up and go home.’ He went in to make sure all tools were in place for the morning.

  The long dry summer made each day’s walk more wearying, and evening brought no ease, the sunken lane holding in so much heat it was lousy with gnats. He lit a cigarette to smoke them off. Since Matlock he’d hoped Alma would call at the forge, or show herself on one of his strolls in Robin’s Wood, couldn’t think why she was sulking, or brooding. He never believed anyone who said they’d never do this, or never do that, because whenever anybody did say they’d never do something it was usually a way of letting the matter rest till they did exactly that again. On the other hand if she really did mean she had packed him in, being a more determined woman than he’d imagined, well then – he spat out a strand of tobacco – she can kiss my behind.

  A long low booming sound crossed the almost clear sky, and though hard to tell where the storm was coming from he hoped it would bring rain, though he would only believe it when water splashed on his cap.

  A flash of more immediate light, and a gunclap of noise, reverberated through the empty kitchen. The wide open door told him where to find Mary Ann. Since childhood she had been terrified of thunderbolts spinning down the chimney and exploding in the fireplace. Or they would flash through a window and create hell in the parlour, bouncing from wall to wall and scorching them black, perhaps setting fire to the house in their malevolent playfulness, killing or horribly injuring anyone in the room.

  So she kept the doors open, to encourage any such fireball to leave after the minimum of damage. It was better to take precautions, and stay out of their way.

  Burton knew every thought in Mary Ann’s head, much disliking those put there by her grandmother. ‘I wonder where she can be?’ Oswald said, at another splintering of light and burst of thunder.

  ‘I know where.’ Burton hung up his jacket, then tapped the door to the cubby hole under the stairs. ‘Mary Ann! I know you’re in there.’

  A small oil lamp at half-glow came before a pale hand and bare forearm. She stumbled into the kitchen, and almost turned back at another flash covering the window. Burton, while softened by her look of terror, couldn’t understand why anybody should be afraid. ‘I always know where to find you.’

  She put her lamp on the table and turned it off. ‘I get so frightened.’

  ‘I’ve told you time and time again that lightning never strikes a blacksmith’s house, but you won’t be said.’

  ‘It might. You can never tell. I’m going back under the stairs till it’s over.’

  ‘No you’re not,’ Burton said. ‘Get my beer, and some snap. I’ve been at work all day, and I’m clambed.’

  ‘I’ll do it when the storm’s finished.’

  At such unreasonable fear he took a bunch of steel cutlery from the table drawer. ‘I’ll show you that lightning can’t hurt us.’

  Wondering what he had in mind, her fright multiplied when he opened the window and held out the bundle of knives and forks as far as his arm would go. She had never wished anybody dead. ‘Ernest, don’t!’

  ‘He’s enjoying himself,’ Oswald said.

  The veins at his temples twitched. ‘Come on! Strike me!’

  Mary Ann was transfixed.

  ‘Here’s your chance! Strike me dead!’ he shouted at the sky. A sizzle of lightning sheeted the window, and Oswald thought how pleased Oliver and all of them might be if he was scorched to a cinder.

  He rattled the cutlery to give whoever it was a second chance, but the flash was weaker, as if it couldn’t be bothered with such as him. He turned. ‘What did I tell you? It didn’t strike me, did it?’

  Oswald, who had never seen his mother so pale, inwardly cursed Burton.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘It never will, either.’ He patted her on the shoulder, and it was as much as she could do not to shrink away, but he smiled at his prank. ‘It won’t harm you, either, and that’s all I care about.’

  ‘God will do it when He wants to,’ she said, ‘in His own good time.’

  ‘If He didn’t do it then, He never will. Anyway, He missed his chance.’

  ‘I suppose that makes you happy?’

  ‘He can take me or leave me.’ Glass and bottle were put before him. The storm had gone, and left no rain, and to staunch their hunger she put out bread and a piece of bacon. ‘Who was that young woman you were seen with at Matlock last weekend, when you should have been in Sheffield?’

  ‘What woman was that? I know of no woman.’

  ‘I’ve heard different.’

  No option but to answer, he could never give himself cause to hit her again, would regret to his dying day that he had already done so. ‘I did the business sooner than expected, and came back through Matlock. I wanted to see if it had altered since we were there.’

  ‘And had it?’

  ‘Not as I could tell.’

  ‘People talk.’ Batter went into a bowl for the pudding. ‘They always have, and they always will.’
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  ‘And who the hell was it who did?’

  Oswald stopped eating at his savage tone, wondering what could be done if Burton thought to knock her about. He didn’t fancy going for him without Thomas and Oliver to back him up.

  ‘Never mind who it was,’ she said.

  The names of those who might have blabbed were gone through almost as quickly as the lightning that had flashed so uselessly at his bundle of steel. Perhaps Florence had talked: he wouldn’t put it past her, or Annie Ollington from next door had been in Matlock that day. She had it in for him, but there was no point speculating on who had panmouthed. ‘I stopped to ask somebody if they knew the place to get a good dinner.’

  ‘Couldn’t you remember the one we went to after we married?’

  ‘That was a long time ago. Places change.’

  ‘It seems like yesterday to me.’

  ‘Me as well, at times. But I didn’t think.’

  A likely story. She went into the pantry to calm herself, knowing that the only way to end an argument was to say no more. ‘Here’s something else till your dinner’s ready,’ she said, laying a pasty on Oswald’s plate.

  ‘Don’t I get one?’ Burton had eaten enough for the moment, and any more would spoil his zest for dinner, but he had to ask.

  ‘You’ll get it when I’m good and ready. I only have one pair of hands.’

  He was uncertain whether to show concern about Oliver, yet wanted to know where he was.

  ‘I expect he’s still at the sawmill,’ Oswald said. ‘They work all hours.’

  ‘I don’t know. I worry about him these days,’ Mary Ann said. ‘He came in half an hour ago, for something to eat. Then he changed and went out again, saying he wouldn’t be long. When I asked what was the matter he just smiled.’

  Burton sharpened his dinner knife with the steel. ‘He’s young. He’ll get over what’s bothering him.’

  Restless as ever, after the meal he walked across the Cherry Orchard, boots crunching over stubble, grass parched to a dusty unhealthy brown. The storm had left no rain to make any difference. Nothing but a deluge would bring the colour back, though there’d be plenty in the autumn. Robin’s Wood spread to either side, every tree clear, a place of memories, causing a momentary smile. A breeze against his face, he felt at peace, and went between the nearest parting of the trunks.

  Rain or not, brambles and nettles had found enough sustenance to overgrow the path. He pushed his way through, and at a rustle in the undergrowth wondered if a rabbit was close. Oliver stood with the double-barrelled twelve-bore signposting his father’s stomach.

  ‘Put that thing down,’ Burton said.

  ‘If you move, I’ll kill you, and put the other in myself.’

  Burton noted his hands not too firm at the firearm, though steady enough to put the ice forever in his belly: ‘It’s loaded. And I can use it.’

  ‘I know you can. I showed you when you were thirteen. I showed you everything you know.’

  ‘You deserve to die.’

  ‘You think I care? There’s many a day I’ve wanted to. But if you kill me, Mary Ann loses both of us.’

  The gun wavered, so much misery on Oliver’s face. ‘You ran me off with Alma. How could you have done such a thing?’

  ‘I shan’t touch her again.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s too late, anyway.’

  ‘Nothing’s too late. Where did you get that gun?’ Not the man to waste talk, but knowing that only words would save them, to look as if not much caring whether he lived or died. ‘I took you shooting over the fields, remember? I made you stand behind me when I fired so that you wouldn’t come to harm.’

  ‘I was in love with Alma.’

  Burton scoffed. ‘How was I to know? A young man has lots of girls. I know I did. Any woman is any man’s meat – except your wife.’

  Oliver thought that whoever spouted such a philosophy was little better than a brute. Burton was irredeemable.

  ‘I didn’t force her. If anyone had taken a girl from me in my young days I’d have thought good luck to him, and bided my time till I could do the same back, unless I was too busy with other girls by then. Anyway, I’ve told you, I shan’t bother with her again.’

  Oliver marvelled at hearing more words from his father than he ever had. Burton lunged forward and pushed the gun clear. ‘You young fool. I’ll have this.’

  ‘I’ll hate you till my dying day.’

  ‘That’s a long time to hate, if you think anybody’s worth it. Get out of my way before I brain you.’ The safety catch had been off, and two cartridges leapt from the breech when he opened it. It was that close. Unable to say anything, he put the shells in his pocket, and threw the gun back. ‘Carry it home.’

  Striding away, he regretted not having given him one between the eyes, even two, though glad at having saved him from murder. No man looked pretty swinging from a gibbet. The sun was going down over the wood behind, and he hoped for such a dowsing of rain as would cool the air and make everything grow. For weeks his sons and daughters had carried every drop, from washing either themselves or the pots, into the garden, and watered at least some of the vegetables. He supposed they hadn’t done so when he wasn’t there, because they’d do anything to get back at him, even though the garden provided food for them all. He’d also splashed a few buckets on the marrows and cucumbers, but water was getting low in the well and was barely good enough to drink.

  Shadows covered the bushes, it would be dark in half an hour, and as he thought of hurrying to give the garden its last look of the day a shot clattered from the wood, a startling sound ripping through the still evening. If you wanted to kill your father and didn’t have the guts or the firm enough wish the next thing you might think of, having the means to do it, was to kill yourself. He scoffed at such an idea, but his heart jerked, almost stopped, and though aching from the day’s work he multiplied his rate of strides back to the wood. He’s done it, the mad stupid youth, because I didn’t think to search his pockets and find the shell he’d hidden from me. Careless, careless, I should have known he was ripe for anything.

  He crashed between the trees. ‘Oliver! Where are you?’

  He stood before him, a dead pigeon dangling from his hand. ‘I’m here, Father.’

  Burton wanted to take him in his arms and hold him, never to let go. ‘I heard the shot, and came back to see what it was.’

  Oliver smiled. ‘You thought I’d committed suicide.’

  ‘I never supposed you’d do such a thing. I only wanted to know what you’d caught.’

  ‘A plump wood pigeon for Mother’s supper, though more by luck than judgement.’

  ‘I’ll pluck it for her when we get home,’ Burton said.

  ‘No, I’ll do it.’

  ‘We’ll need a few buckets of water on the garden first. It’ll be dark soon, so we’d better hurry.’ He pointed to the gun. ‘Are there any more in there?’

  Oliver held up the dead bird. ‘I used the last on this.’ He smiled, serene and sure at having one final blow to deal his father, which he would not mention now, something unluckily that would upset the rest of the family as well, but things had gone too far to bother about that.

  ‘Don’t let your mother see the gun, or you’ll frighten her half to death.’ As he strode across the common, relying on his son to follow, he wished he had never set eyes on Alma, and regretted that Oliver didn’t have another bullet to put in his back.

  He could think of nothing more than to enlist in the South Nottinghamshire Hussars, and do his bit for the war like everybody else. No queue at the drill hall, a sergeant at the table inside told him the lists were full.

  ‘We’ve got over five hundred men, and that’s all the regiment needs for the time being.’ He picked up a four-ounce tin of Craven ‘A’ Mixture, and sat back in his chair as if after a good day’s work in enrolling so many, to light his pipe from a box of Swan Vestas. I’ll tell you what, you look as if you’d make a good soldier, so why don’t you
put your name down for the Robin Hoods? It’s a fine regiment.’

  Oliver had seen the Hussars parading in the Market Place five years ago, and told himself that if ever he decided to become a soldier (though hardly intending to) he would join that body of men, or none. It was all the same whether he belonged or not, because how else could he get rid of the misery of Alma’s betrayal? What better than to forget by going for a soldier? The Robin Hoods would be as good a regiment as any, and being with the infantry would get him killed sooner. He turned to leave.

  ‘There’s one trade we’re short of,’ the sergeant called, ‘but the people in it seem a bit shy of coming forward.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Blacksmiths. Shoeing smiths. Farriers. With so many horses we’re dead short of ’em.’

  ‘I’m a blacksmith, and I’ve got my articles.’

  ‘You aren’t codding me, just to get in?’

  ‘It’s as true as I’m standing here. I’ll sign up, but I must go home and let my mother know.’

  ‘Of course you must, my lad. But first I’ll put your name down. You’ll be on the roll as a shoeing smith. What name do you go by?’

  ‘Oliver Burton. I’m twenty-three.’

  ‘The colonel will be as pleased as Punch. Even he’s waiting to get his charger shod.’ He shuffled a few lists. ‘You’ll be in the Wollaton squadron, under Major Ley. They’ve been out all day bringing in horses. A lot came from Shipstone’s brewery, which’ll mean less ale for the drunkards in town tomorrow.’ He smoothed his bushy grey moustache, and smiled widely, turned loquacious at getting a farrier, pleased to let his pipe go cold. ‘The colonel’s been up Eastwood way, and his party brought over twenty back, though I can’t say how good they’ll be. Anyway, the regiment’s off to Norfolk in the morning. You’ll join them in a week or two, after we’ve made a smart trooper out of you.’

  The first day’s pay of one-and-twopence in his pocket signified the prospect of adventure and put elation into his walk, as if the war had broken out for him alone. Anguish falling away, he was no longer his own master, but when had he been? The army wouldn’t be so strange, because he would be dealing with horses, and any sergeant-major’s bark couldn’t be worse than Burton’s had always been.