The Broken Chariot

  Poor things had no one else to talk about. His father’s study was just as he had seen it in the afternoon. In the attic he found a fort and fire engine broken and dusty, toys from his childhood. Finding his way in darkness to the kitchen, he hated the night. Night was inhuman, antipathetic, no good for him. After five minutes of fresh air he made back for bed, his only refuge. Night was a black cloth covering all romance, and he slept as if utterly worn out. When he woke up bits of dream were stamped on by the boots of daylight.

  The morning was dry and blustery, and at breakfast Hugh said they would go out with the Purdys. ‘See if we can bag a rabbit or two down by the river.’

  Energized, ready for anything, Herbert chose a pair of wellingtons from the hall by the kitchen and, with a bandolier of cartridges hanging from his shoulder, and the gun pointing down, followed his father to the lane. Like two soldiers on patrol, Herbert thought.

  High stinging nettles bent over the track, a thick hawthorn hedge and a ditch on the other side. The carmine blue and gold of an overflying painted lady stopped Hugh for a moment in his stalking, and Herbert all but ran into him.

  By a pink blaze of rosebay his father signalled for stealth, which put both at the crouch and immobile. He straightened, gun at the same time coming to his shoulder. Herbert went down with equal slowness on one knee to take aim, and the question came as to whether he should put a stop to his father now, in the back, at ten yards range. He pressed off the safety catch, stroking the cold trigger.

  Two mature and confident rabbits came from under a laden bramble, furry snouts at the twitch, facing each other as if for a round of boxing before loosing themselves for breakfast in the rich pastures. A large white butterfly made a hypotenuse up from his sights, and he lined his gun on the left-hand rabbit, assuming his father would take the other.

  For no reason he could think of Archie’s face printed itself on his mind, enough of a glimpse to make him wonder if such a powerful almost sexual urge to blow a hole in his own father should for a moment be morally contemplated. He decided that Archie was too primitive and too civilized even to think of such a murder, and in any case so was he.

  The rabbit spun over, and he hit the other before it could run. A third report from a higher elevation brought a wounded pigeon flopping on to the Pliocene soil. He was astounded that his father had not all along intended to fire at either of the rabbits but had left both to him, confident of being understood.

  The shots alerted wildlife for miles around, so that in spite of another hour’s tramping and a few wasted shots, they downed nothing more. ‘Two rabbits and a pigeon ain’t bad,’ Hugh said. ‘That was a good bit of shooting, by the way.’

  ‘So was yours.’

  They stood under a half-shed chestnut, Hugh wielding his pipe for a well-earned smoke. ‘I have so much faith in this little lighting-up machine you made at your factory that I didn’t even carry matches this morning.’

  He said ‘Your factory’ as if Herbert owned it, which for some reason pleased him. Light brought out autumn’s colours, a blade of sun catching a clump of Scotch pines. Herbert liked the sound of birds embellishing the day. His father leaned, holding a flame over the bowl. ‘Do you remember that cheque for twenty-five pounds I sent you? It was years ago.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Why didn’t you cash it?’

  Why ever not? He’d long forgotten it. ‘I was waiting for a rainy day, which hasn’t come yet.’

  ‘Well, in my youth I’d have made the bloody rain pour down so that I could have had a whale of a time on it. So cash it. Stop waiting for emergencies.’

  ‘I promise I will.’

  They climbed the stile from the lane in silence, then Hugh laughed as he opened the gate to home. ‘Ah! I can smell something good for lunch.’

  Maud drove him to Norwich in their Vauxhall Velox Saloon so as to shorten his journey home. ‘I wish you would make your home with us, though. Or in London, at least. Your father could get you a job in insurance, or shipping. You must have enough material for your book by now.’

  The prospect of being alone in the train lured like a gleam of paradise. ‘Not quite.’

  She overtook a farm wagon on a bend. Another such manoeuvre, he smiled, and all our troubles will be over. ‘I’ll need a year or two yet.’

  After a mile of ointment-quiet she came in with: ‘I can’t think why you torment yourself so. It’s not like either of us.’

  Luckily the engine drowned his sigh. ‘It’s how I am.’

  ‘I know. But I worry about you.’

  He touched her hand at the wheel, a natural almost loving gesture that felt strange to him, though there was nothing behind it but the action, which made him free of her as well. ‘You don’t need to, believe me.’

  ‘All right, I won’t. But write now and again.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘And come whenever you like.’

  He wouldn’t, unless some reason hard to imagine impelled him. ‘I shall.’

  He had an impulse to sling the bag of apples out of the train window, but decided they’d make a present for Mrs Denman. She liked fruit. At the station there was time to send a postcard to Isaac, as proof that he had done his duty.

  Thirteen

  Mrs Denman thought the excursion had done him little good, wondered whether he had been to Norfolk at all, but had gone instead to London and fallen into bad company. As for the apples, he could have bought them at a stall, though in the end she had to believe him, since he was too proud a person to tell a lie. ‘Was your parents well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do they do?’

  ‘They’re retired.’

  ‘They must have a nice garden.’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘I expect they were glad to see you.’

  ‘I think they were.’

  ‘I’m glad you went, though.’

  He raised his eyebrows, and smiled. ‘Yes, so am I.’

  She didn’t think the trip had made him happy, which disappointed, almost irritated her. He seemed to have a ghost before his eyes every minute of the day, one that he saw all night as well in his dreams, to judge by his expression when he came down for breakfast.

  There was something swinish, he knew, in disappointing her, but what could he say? It was harder to come back than it had been to go. Pedalling his bike to work was a relief, part of an ongoing donkey circuit keeping him on course to where he would eventually get. If I unlock myself from such a totally absorbing existence, he thought, the language of his schooldays coming back, as if there was no other way of saying it, I’m lost, so here I am and here I shall stay. Life’s too short to worry about anything other than work and shelter.

  A blindoe drink-out with Archie was necessary before he could relax within the palisade of safety, and write a letter thanking his parents for their kindness. Pepper’s chip shop on Alfreton Road was crowded with people just out of the boozers, clamouring for mushy peas and cobs, fish and pickled onions and mugs of well-sweetened tea. Archie elbowed his way to the counter, Herbert in a moment by his side: ‘I’ll have the usual.’

  ‘Fish, chips, cobs and teas twice,’ Archie bawled.

  ‘Tek yer sweat, then. There’s others before yo’.’

  While waiting Herbert said: ‘I need to get myself a typewriter.’

  ‘What do you want one o’ them for?’

  He would pay for it out of his father’s old cheque. ‘Just to play around on. I want to learn how to tek one to bits and put it together again. Whereabouts would I go to get a good ’un?’

  Archie’s brain seemed to be working at the back of his eyes like the spinning fruitwheels of a one-armed bandit. ‘Here’s the grub. Let’s get stuck in. Don’t go to one o’ them secondhand places. You’ll only get done. I’ll bring one to your room as soon as I can. It might tek a month or two.’

  They moved to a corner, away from the crush. ‘That’s all right. I’m in no hurry.’

  Herbert leane
d his workaday sit-up-and-beg against the parapet of Trent Bridge and looked towards the War Memorial, along the sweep of the embankment steps where people were getting into boats for an hour’s pull at the oars. His promise of a mystery trip had called for some attention to the map, until a breeze ruffled inconveniently and he folded it back into his jacket pocket. ‘Not too far, though,’ Cecilia had said. ‘It’s at least a year since I was on a bicycle.’

  High cauliflower clouds operated in the west so it looked like a day of dry grass. The quickest way out of town took them along nondescript Wilford Lane and over Fairham Brook. True country began when he navigated into Clifton Grove only if they ignored the new housing estate through trees to their left. He felt something magical and Grecian in the long avenue of beeches, oaks and elms, though he couldn’t let Bert make such a comparison to Cecilia. Shouldering his bike over a dead tree, he went back for hers when she couldn’t lift it and avoid nettles at the same time.

  She looked fresh and athletic in her white blouse and jersey tied to hang over her shoulders. A grey skirt and laced shoes set her up for a day in the country, which put her almost on a par with Ralph’s bint when they had set out for the Lake District years ago; but in spite of her provincial confidence there seemed something lost about Cecilia. She was like Mariana out of Tennyson, waiting for who could tell what? Otherwise why would he have latched himself on to her if she hadn’t been waiting all her life for him?

  He laid her bike against the tree and reached for her arm, and took her over by the waist. Such courtly treatment was rewarded by a slight pressure to his hand. Beyond the village he steered by her side, playing the cavalier who guarded her from a brush by traffic, hoping the gesture wasn’t beyond notice. The difficulty made him wonder why they used such a plebeian mode of transport – as the swinging of a car passed too close to his elbows. Watch where you’re fucking going, he wanted to shout.

  He judged the contours, and chose the road to Gotham rather than Barton because the hill was less steep. Even so, she found it hard to keep to the saddle of her new Raleigh. ‘Gotham is where those funny yokels tried to rake the moon out of a pond,’ he said.

  ‘People still do,’ she smiled. ‘They’re always fishing for something they can never get.’

  Was that a hint against what she must know he was after? If rain threw it down – which didn’t seem likely – and they sheltered in a barn he might get at her buttons in the hugger-mugger. Or he might not, would have to be subtle and slow, but it would be a pity not to try because she might be dying to get the old mutton dagger inside her. With such a woman you never could tell.

  Stopping by a gate, he took the top from a lemonade bottle, and passed it for her to drink, deciding to put on a bit of the old Herbert. ‘People fishing for something that turns out to be impossible can at least get the thrill of realizing how stupid they are. There’s always something to be had in fishing for the unattainable.’

  ‘You should be an actor, the way your accent changes when you try to say something interesting.’

  ‘Ah, I could have been a lot of things.’

  ‘I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.’

  ‘I can only hope so.’ His father’s advice, to make the woman imagine that all the good in you came from her, seemed apt at the moment. ‘I listen to the BBC, and get influenced, because I think you would like me to.’ Back to Bert, he spat out a mouthful of the vile and oversweet lemonade, and screwed the top back on as if to strangle the bottle. ‘I’m for the road. Are yer fit?’

  She found him stiff, and awkward, though not detecting any definite fault only added to her confusion as to the real quality of his character, especially as she hadn’t actually known whether she wanted to come out on such a jaunt and be exposed to its full force. Cycling was more difficult than she had thought when, holding hands on the table in the café, he had so eloquently told her how pleasantly liberating a bike ride would be to the body and spirit. At such times he spoke like someone whose mind was halfway into another world, one she would be more comfortable in yet could hardly understand. He had a persuasive way of stating all arguments clearly, setting one against the other, but finally coming down on the one he wanted to win, and in such a way as to make you imagine you’d outlined it yourself.

  He reached across and touched her hand, pointing to Leake Hills a mile away. ‘Just look at those splendid woods over there.’

  ‘I’m glad I came,’ she said. ‘It’s wonderful to be in the countryside.’

  ‘If I could ride close enough, and be in no danger of knocking you off the bike, I’d get a fan and keep the gnats off you.’

  ‘They’re not too bad.’ He could be gentlemanly and polite to an extent she never found in any of her previous boyfriends, who hadn’t shown a fraction of such finesse. But when he came out with: ‘After we get to Leake I think I’ll sink a pint or two in the pub. It’s thirsty work, this bikin’. As for yo’, duck, yer can ’ave a glass o’ shandy,’ she wondered where such habits and manners came from, and why it was, after saying something gallant, he immediately suggested an action which showed he was ashamed of having tried to be nice. Such switches of personality – or whatever it was – added to her mixed feelings, an anxiety latent at the best of times. She felt close to tears. He was unknowable, unreachable, unfathomable, and there must be something in him as hard as nails. Either that, or he was incredibly stupid, perhaps even cruel.

  On the other hand maybe his frequent lapses into the demotic merely indicated his snobbery in wanting to make fun of the common people, but if that was the case how was it he did it so well? He had obviously picked it up from the pubs, and on the street, and being a good mimic knew how to make it sound genuine.

  That, he thought, was what she would like to think, and he could only hope for her sake that she did. He came back with crisps and shandy from the bar, and a pint for himself, relishing the trip with this young woman who vacillated between the suave and the highly strung. Twelve miles out of the city added up to hardly enough time to be with her and get all he wanted, though if they did much more cycling she would no longer find it pleasant, he gathered, because her legs ached, and her behind was getting sore.

  She seemed to be in the ladies for an hour, though it could have only been a few minutes. All the same, her absence went on long enough for him to think that if he couldn’t seduce her on this outing he wouldn’t bother to meet her again. He’d pack her in, to quote Archie. In fact the chances of getting so far looked in no way promising, and he wondered what would happen to her if he wasn’t there when she came out of the ladies, if he mounted his bike and rode alone to Loughborough, to see what he could pick up there.

  The longer he sat thinking about such a good idea the greater was the chance of her seeing only the back of him as he vanished through the door. Dwelling enjoyably on such a picture delayed him until she came smiling into the bar. His standing up to watch over her sitting down was seen as another example of perfect manners, but then he had to spoil it by saying that since he was on his feet he might as well go to the bar and get his glass refilled.

  Outside, noting that her tyres had not been firm since Clifton, he pumped them up, but even ruined that considerate service by adding: ‘You feel the bumps, and that’s what’s making your arse sore.’ He talked about continuing the ride as far as Nanpanton in Charwood Forest. ‘Maybe jolly old toothless Nancy Panton will have a cup o’ tea and a charcoal sandwich ready for us!’

  Such a total run of forty miles would be impossible for her, though nothing to him, and to persist in the idea would be cruelty, so like the reliable consort he was called on to be, he confessed to a little tiredness, and said maybe they ought to wend their way back, providing of course that she didn’t mind. ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘in any case, and wouldn’t like either of us to get too exhausted.’

  She put a hand on his, eyes lovely with relief. ‘Yes, we can turn round. I don’t mind.’

  ‘Whatever you like, sweetheart.’ br />
  She had hoped for a pleasant meadow by the roadside on which to eat lunch but, a little ahead in Gotham and without saying anything, he forked left on to another track. Ascending the hill she felt the bumps as painfully as ever, so manoeuvred her bike on foot, until he took both machines and pushed them easily along.

  She could imagine being married to him, for he thought of kind things to do almost before they came into her own mind. On the other hand he could be disturbingly unpredictable, at times like someone on the verge of mental illness. Or perhaps she was exaggerating, having often been wrong in differentiating the rough parts from the smooth, which led her to question the workings of her own reason, something she didn’t like at all, since it came too easily even in matters of no importance. No one had ever made her doubt herself more than Herbert, so that it was difficult to get the right advice from her instinct in dealing with him.

  The slope steepened, awkward off the track to hold the bikes and guide them upright between tussocks or grass. She followed, willing him to stop, heard him call back after a rabbit skipped panic-struck towards the woods. ‘That’s where we’re going.’

  To be fair – and she liked to be fair – she could never find the final damaging evidence that he was no good for her. Something always surfaced to make him likeable, so she assumed it would be all right to go on meeting him.

  He stopped, and let her catch up. ‘You wanted to get as far away from the city blight as possible, so I did my best.’

  He remembered everything, which was good, but only to use it against her, which wasn’t. His enthusiasm led her uncomplainingly to the line of woods, where he found a smooth place and spread his cycling cape like Raleigh his cloak so that she could sit in comfort.

  ‘We’re about three hundred feet up. See how many villages you can count.’

  ‘As if it matters,’ she said. ‘Stop treating me like an infant.’

  He walked along the edge of the wood to find a way inside, where their snogging could take place more privately. He found it easy to get in, but knew it would be impossible to coax her under the barbed wire. ‘If I’d known about the fence I’d have brought some wire-cutters. I don’t like being kept out of places.’