The Broken Chariot

  The typed sheets lay on his table under a folded shirt, a secure enough hiding place, he had thought, until Mrs Denman said one day at supper: ‘I didn’t realize you were writing a book, Bert.’

  He cut a sausage in two, dipped one half in a pool of sauce. ‘What meks yer think that?’

  She let the newspaper fall. ‘I can’t see as Archie will like what you say about him, true or not.’

  ‘It ain’t Archie,’ he said gruffly, reaching for the bread. ‘And if it was he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I only found it because I wanted to wash your shirt’ – not caring, he assumed, to be accused of snooping. ‘As for that woman you write such things about, well! I suppose she’s that nice dark one you tek to your room.’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t see why she should feel like a criminal or, worse, a sneak. ‘It’s completely made up.’

  ‘So you say. But there’s me in it, as well. I’ve got black hair, though, not ginger.’

  ‘It’s all right, Ma.’ He could only laugh, and touch her arm. ‘I’ll alter it before it’s finished. You won’t know yourself when I’ve done with you.’

  ‘That’s a fine thing to say!’ Which remark he couldn’t decide how to take. Perhaps she was amused at the description, and wanted him to leave it be, for she smiled: ‘I allus thought there was more to you than met the eye.’

  Within three months he had written the novel again, sucking so much ink into the rubber sack of his fountain pen that he wondered if for the rest of his life he would use sufficient of the blue-black liquid to drown himself. Changing people so that they couldn’t be recognized, yet not distort the sense of their reality, or their appearance to the world, seemed hardly possible. The best he could hope was that – if by a far off chance anyone in the district read it – few but scattered qualities of various people they knew would be detectable. He wanted to make the book readable and convincing mainly for himself and for whoever didn’t know how industrial workers lived.

  Every day in the factory, as each finished artefact fell from his lathe, he wondered what vocation he might otherwise have followed in his life. He could have been a soldier, certainly, perhaps an actor, even a confidence man, not to mention a mechanic that half of himself had become, but he was turning most of all into a thief of broken dreams, or a cat burglar of other people’s lives. Switching off, he tidied up so as to leave the lathe and its surroundings clean for the next morning’s start. The lathe had been the only thing in his life he could go back to, but now he had something else, his spirit floating like a compass needle in alcohol as he reached for his jacket, haversack of sandwich paper and empty flask, and collected his new Raleigh from the cycle shed. He rode away from the factory like a somnambulist, and when he got home washed himself at the kitchen sink and sat down to a silent supper. Afterwards he went upstairs and closed the door to his room. Eight hours of pandering to the mechanical part of himself called for a refuge in which he could fit his daydreams together like the scattered pieces of a Meccano set. Phrase by phrase, he was assembling a version of himself, but not turning into a Bert or a Herbert, rather someone a little of both but unique to neither. Such a way of finding out who he was gradually revealed that no one ever discovered who they were, at least not to the depth and unity he had formerly hoped was possible. The cold emotion felt while writing told him that he was reconstituting himself, whoever he was, by using the people among whom he lived. From Phaeton driving a disintegrating chariot across the sky he was putting the pieces back and fixing them together while the vehicle was still in motion.

  A dark cloud, shaped like the top half of South America, drifted across scintillating Ursa Major. While saying a passionate goodnight to Cecilia at the gate of her house he noticed a man smoking a cigar come on to the pavement, and look up and down the road as if wondering what rent he would charge if he owned the houses on it, or as if to make sure that no roughnecks from Radford or the Meadows were swarming up in the darkness with knives between their teeth to take his posh villa to pieces: her father.

  Cecilia broke free, and forestalled him. ‘Hello, Dad.’

  ‘Thought I saw you. Is this your young man?’

  Herbert objected to the description, it being a long time since he had thought of himself as young, and in any case he didn’t care to be lumped with any group of the population by such a slob. But for Cecilia’s sake he held out his hand, moodily shaken by a short, compact, bald-headed man who all but ignored him by saying sharply to Cecilia: ‘You’d better get in. It’s late.’

  Herbert appreciated the kiss on his cheek, but was annoyed at such obedience from a woman of her age. ‘Good night, then.’

  The large front door thumped to. ‘You seem to be courting my daughter.’

  Bert opened his packet of Senior Service, and took time to light one. ‘You could say as much.’

  ‘I hope you’re not stringing her along.’

  What kind of world was he living in? ‘If you believe that you’ll believe anything.’

  He scuffed the end of his cigar into the pavement. ‘Have you got any long-term plans?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m not surprised you don’t know. Future intentions – you know very well what I’m getting at. I’d be interested to hear your views.’

  ‘So would I. When I have some you’ll be the first to know, after Cecilia, I expect.’

  ‘That’s straight enough. She deserves well.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘Make sure she gets it, then.’

  Herbert’s supercilious smile was wasted in the dark. If I loved her I’d be polite, because of his age, which is supposed to give him wisdom and knowledge, but who can say he’s wiser or more knowing than I am? He thinks all the advantages on his side give him the right to test my seriousness with Cecilia, but I stopped taking tests when I left the army. He clenched his fists at having been forced into reflection, ready to knock the self-important little tyke down if he said much more. ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘You told her you worked in an office.’ Coming closer, Herbert gave him top marks for guts. ‘But I happen to know you work in a factory.’

  ‘She’s aware of that.’

  ‘I don’t think she is.’

  ‘She should be by now. In any case,’ the full public school accent took him over, ‘it’s none of your business. So if you’ll excuse me, I must be going. I have to get up in the morning and do a day’s work.’

  ‘If you think I don’t work, you’re wrong.’ Herbert sensed the man relenting towards him, maybe because of the accent, which made him angrier. The pathetic swine wanted a good pasting, but there was no point squandering time. ‘I’m not implying anything, old boy. I’m just trying to tell you, in no uncertain terms, to get off my back.’ It was satisfying to see him walk away so quickly.

  It had to be done somewhere, so why not in his room? He led the way step by step, between wallpaper that must have been there since before the Boer War. Likewise the shabby carpet. Cecilia wore the usual mock-thoroughbred expression at muted bruto noises from the backyards, and turned up her shapely nose at the sparse economy of the furnished room, heavy with odours from train and cigarette smoke, and diesel fumes from the buses, not much improved when he closed the window and curtains. A good half of him sympathized with her, which didn’t please him, so he said: ‘If I bump into your old man again I’ll black both his eyes, and break one of his arms.’

  She laughed as he closed the door. ‘Oh, darling, you made him hopping mad. I promised faithfully not to see you any more. Don’t be angry, though. He was only trying to look after me. He still thinks I’m a young girl. There are times when I don’t like it, but I know he’ll never grow up and treat me as a woman, and I’m twenty-nine.’

  ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  She sat on the bed. ‘I’m used to it. I can always pacify him, and get what I want.’ Does that mean, Herbert wondered, that she thinks she can do the same with me? H
e undid his belt. ‘Take your clothes off.’

  ‘You know, I don’t much like doing it here.’

  He drew her forward for a kiss, and managed it delicately. ‘It’s just as sweet as anywhere else. I feel such love for you. Come on, sweetheart.’

  The encounter reminded her of one they had seen in a French film of before the war, so she loosened her skirt, and lay on the bed. He manoeuvred a warm shoulder out of her blouse, much appreciating that she accepted his squalid digs as an adventurous place for a fuck. His kisses sent her into such rapture that soon it didn’t matter that they weren’t on the brightly lit bed at home. He couldn’t be sure to what extent she had climaxed, because a train whistle sounded at the same time.

  ‘You keep promising to let me see your typewriter,’ she said, arranging her clothes. ‘But you never do.’

  We’ve just made love a couple of feet above it, he wanted to say, having wrapped it in a piece of blanket and shoved it under the bed. Not that he was convinced the machine had been stolen from her office. ‘One of the letters went phut, and it’s away for repair.’

  ‘Oh, what firm do you use?’

  What indeed? ‘I take it to a bloke up the road. He knows all about them. Used to work at Barlock’s.’

  ‘I really must see it, one day. I can’t wait to read your novel, either, when it’s finished.’

  ‘Nor can I.’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean.’ She didn’t want to stay long after making love, as if everyone in the street had their ears fixed against the wall. The French film effect had worn off. The room was cold, its window rattling at every breeze. She wanted to be walked back to where steam pipes were hot to the fingers.

  She came out of the love-making mood before he did, though he was happy enough to shift, even to walk in silence through the same old dismal town, rain blowing against their faces.

  ‘Let’s say goodnight at the end of the road in case my father’s waiting. No use antagonizing him unnecessarily.’ Another reason was the ever present violence in Herbert which, though it had some attraction, made her afraid for herself as well as for her father. It was too easy to imagine them getting into a fight. She would like Herbert to have more control, and not be so self-indulgent. He was often touchy for little reason. Her other young men had put on a show of respect for her father, but Herbert relished no such laws, and her father had ranted only that day that he wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him.

  They met less often, she making excuses for staying at home, which he didn’t question, using the time to work on his novel, whose progress she no longer asked about, indicating that she had lost interest, which at times suited him well, while at others it increased his sense of isolation.

  He persuaded her to go to the pub on Wilford Road, thinking she might like to see a scene from one of his chapters. He led her along dark streets to get there, which route, apart from tiring her, put her into a gloomy state, especially when the devil was in him to rile her more than usual. The saloon bar was disappointingly empty. ‘You haven’t been in a dive like this before, I suppose?’

  She smiled, knowing his game. ‘Is it just another of your planned adventures? It’s called slumming, isn’t it? If so, I can do without it. Pubs like this aren’t places a well brought-up woman would normally go into.’

  ‘A good upbringing should allow one to go anywhere.’

  She sipped her brandy as if the rogue factory worker before her would belt her one if she didn’t appreciate it, or he would look askance if she drank it too quickly. Like everything about him it was hard to tell. ‘You ought to get a room in a better district.’

  He only annoyed her to make her more lively, unless it was an underhand way of increasing the liveliness in himself, which thought brought on momentary shame at such meanness, though in revenge at her making him feel it he said: ‘You’ve told me that a hundred times already.’

  Her face flushed with excitement, as if every quarrel took them further into the unknown. ‘I’m telling you again.’

  ‘There are two reasons why I don’t,’ he said calmly. ‘One is that it’s cheap where I am, and the other is that it’s close to work. Another thing is I like the woman who runs the place.’

  She retied the pretty coloured scarf around her neck. ‘But you’re a writer, aren’t you? And you work in an office, don’t you? You could surely get a nice flat.’

  He swallowed half his pint, wondering whether to belch. He didn’t, though if this was taking place in a story he certainly would have. ‘I’ve slaved on the shop floor since I was fourteen, except for a few years in the army.’

  ‘Oh stop that stupid talk. You know very well what my father told me. I suspected as much before, anyway. But why did you try to deceive me?’ She was close to tears. ‘That’s what’s so unforgivable.’

  If things had gone that far between two people it was time to end the affair. He grinned, as widely as he was able to stretch his lips without the help of his fingers. ‘I didn’t deceive you, duck.’

  ‘You revelled in it. And in any case I’ve always known you weren’t what you said you were.’

  He respected her, and maybe loved her too much even now to let rip the full power of his assumed personality. ‘You just try to guess everything, without coming out honestly and asking to talk it over. You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘But if you loved me you’d have been open with me.’ She was ready to let the tears fall. ‘Why weren’t you?’

  She guessed he had been searching for a reason to stop seeing her, and realized that she wanted to stop seeing him as well. Her legs supported her in standing up, though it was hard to stop the shake at her ankles. ‘You’re sly and deceitful, and mean. You’re afraid of the world and everybody in it. You don’t know anything about human beings because you’re not human yourself.’

  The words came out hard, like a machine gun firing dumdum bullets which ought to have chewed his guts to mush, and would have if they’d meant as much to him as they obviously did to her. Real life again, he smiled. She had come alive at last, at the very point when he was intent on ditching her. To tolerate such yammering he drummed up more Archie than there was even Bert Gedling in himself, and no attempt at control could stop him. ‘You’re a sour old maid, a bleedin’ snob, as well, and all because o’ the work I do.’

  Further words were stopped by her brandy splashing his jacket and shirt. ‘Don’t expect to see me again.’

  The drops that hit his scar stung like acid, and if she hadn’t gone quickly he would have smacked her between the eyes. He had often wondered how it would end, and now he knew.

  ‘I think you asked for that,’ a man called from the bar, seeing his shock and rage impossible to hide.

  Bert, realizing the procedure in such a situation, said that he supposed he did.

  ‘That’s a lovely scar you’ve got, though,’ the man said, stricken with admiration and envy. ‘Did she do it?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ Herbert smiled.

  ‘She gave you what-for, though, didn’t she?’

  Herbert admitted that she had indeed, but said it wouldn’t be the last time such a bust-up would happen to him. He hoped not, anyway, otherwise what was the point of being on earth?

  ‘You’ve got a point there,’ the man said, and went on, cheerfully enough: ‘I’ve had six wives, if you want to know.’

  Herbert didn’t particularly. ‘Six?’

  ‘Well, women, you might say. Three of ’em I left, and the other three left me. Not bad, eh? I can’t wait to find another, but I’m having a bit of a break at the moment.’

  ‘I’d say you deserved it.’ Herbert strolled across for another pint. The occasion of his rupture with Cecilia called for a swagger. He seated himself beside the Lothario, though he hardly seemed that, with his fat slack body and worn features, pasty skin and grey but alert eyes.

  His navy-blue three-piece suit was of good quality, his collar and tie impeccable, as was the trilby at a confident enoug
h angle. Even the stool he sat on seemed to feel the privilege as he swivelled to face Herbert: ‘No use crying over spilt beer, that’s what I always say.’

  Herbert denied he was made that way, though knew he had lost her right enough, deciding never to get rid of anyone so unfeelingly again. In other words, have even more self-control over his mouth than heretofore, and watch his behaviour every second. That way he’d get what he wanted and stay sane as well – and you couldn’t have it better than that. As for happiness, if you thought about having much of that you would really end up to your neck in shit.

  ‘You know how to keep a woman happy?’

  The man seemed to be intercepting his thoughts, but Herbert appreciated being amused by this funny little chap who claimed to be so irresistible to women. ‘Give ’em a good fucking every night?’ Bert said.

  He laughed. ‘Yo’ young ’uns! Nothing so crude as that. I’ve worked it out like this: every time you feel happy, give her a good hiding; every time you feel rotten and down in the dumps, make her feel as if she’s the queen of the earth. Can’t lose, because that way neither of you can take each other for granted, or get fed up.’

  ‘How come that three of your women left you, then?’ He called for another pint and sat on a stool to listen.

  ‘I’d better start from the beginning.’ The man sipped at whisky that the publican had put down without him even having to ask, suggesting that he was trying to drown his sorrows in drink now that his peculiar system had fallen apart at the seams.

  The longer the rigmarole went on the more dismal it became, a catalogue of tricks and woes spun out in monotone, with a lack of art that Herbert found depressing, boredom only offset by pint after pint until both of them were blindoe and incoherent. It was a story no one either sane or drunk could make head or tail of, and the only happiness of the evening was when he reeled into the street at kicking-out time, finding the way back to his room as if radar had drawn him to it.