Mrs Denman, her bed-time curlers in, sat by the fading coal to sip her night-owl coffee, as she called it. ‘I don’t know what you do in your room all these hours.’
What did she think, in her secret heart? Wank himself to a cinder? ‘I read.’
‘You must be freezing. Why don’t you do it down here, or in the parlour with an electric heater?’
He wanted to be in his own four walls, with the door shut, private, often not aware of the cold. She was used to his silence at her questions, thinking him a funny lad, but then, weren’t they all at that age, come to that? ‘I’ll mek yer a nice mug o’ cocoa, so at least you’ll go warm to bed.’
You had to say something to show thanks at such concern, whether you believe it or not. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ma!’
‘Ah, well, somebody’s got to look after you, since you can’t seem to do it yourself, working all day in that factory. Not that I don’t know why not. But it’s allus bin like that, and allus will be, I suppose.’
He wasn’t unhappy, languishing under her platitudes like the helpless booby he knew he was not. It was the role of the common workman to accept it as his due.
‘You should go out more,’ she said. ‘Find a nice young woman.’
The response to such concern should be to reach out and squeeze her hand, with the jocular remark: ‘Nar, I’ve got yo’, ain’t I, me duck?’ — but he could only say: ‘I’ll have to see about that.’
‘You ought to go and visit your parents, at least. It’s a shame to lose touch. You might need ’em one day. It’d do you good to be away for a weekend, anyway.’
‘’Appen it would,’ he said.
Feet up on the range after the day’s sweat, just as he’d thought his metamorphosis to a workman was as complete as it could be, he reached for Mrs Denman’s Evening Post and saw that a public lecture was to be given at the Mechanics Institute by the author W. J. Hawksworth, winner of last year’s Windrush Prize. A little gingering of the intellect might improve his perceptions in general, though he was doubtful that such testing would occur. In Cyprus he had taken Hawksworth’s Glebe Farm from the camp library, telling about a woman who had to run farm and family on her own because her husband had gone off to the war. A third the way through he left it on his bed to go for a shower, and came back to find it nicked, which led him to believe it may have been better than he’d thought, but a few days later the book was back on his bed, and pencilling on the inside cover said: ‘Bloody trash.’ Herbert had to agree with this criticism, and didn’t go on to finish it. Still, even a mediocre novelist might be amusing to listen to.
Midweek or not, the occasion called for a more than thorough wash and shave at the bathroom sink. He put on his best shirt, cursing the recalcitrant collar studs and cuff-links, which wouldn’t go through the holes made too stiff by starch. Buttoning the mackintosh over his best suit he walked up the street and leapt on a trackless into town.
He spotted a chair near the back of the packed hall, on the edge of a row. A youngish woman beside him had dark ringletty hair and a thin face, all that he could see of her before the curtain opened on W. J. Hawksworth sitting at a table on stage. A man to his left talked a few minutes about how good Hawksworth’s novels were. So many people loved them because they could see themselves mirrored in the characters he wrote so well about. Not the fucking people I know, Bert said to himself.
Hawksworth twiddled a watch chain across his waistcoat, touched up his grey crinkly hair. The human pen was nervous at least and, glad to hear the last of his introducer, he got up as if it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.
Herbert noticed that one of his legs was twitching, out of nervousness, or exhaustion, or from too much booze, though perhaps it was to put rhythm into his cadenced and well-rehearsed sentences. Hawksworth went on for nearly an hour about how he had become a novelist, told them how he wrote (he held up his fountain pen), what his first story had been about (himself), explained that he was careful to type all manuscripts neatly (double-spaced with twenty-five lines to a page), and expatiated on how he had sent the first stories out to various magazines (with stamped self-addressed envelopes for their possible return). He then sat down to wait.
The stories came back but, playing ducks and drakes with them (his phrase) he skimmed them out once more on their travels. One was accepted and published. Encouraged by this (and the sum of five pounds) he wrote a novel, and he described the process of doing that as well, detailing the work stage by stage, almost thought by thought until, like a car being bodged to life at a garage by a totally incompetent mechanic listening to ‘Music While You Work’ on full blast, he knew it was fit to face the world. Or he hoped so. The book was turned down half a dozen times, but eventually someone had the good sense to see what a talented work it was for a young man of twenty-five, and a lifetime of producing novels began. He went on to talk about the great modern novelists such as Waugh, Forster, Huxley, D. H. Lawrence and Graham Greene, implying that it wasn’t necessary to add before such an intelligent and discriminating audience that he was one of them. He’s an old ham, Herbert thought. He must have given this talk dozens of times already. The woman by his side was writing notes, and between gales of splintered clapping at the end Herbert asked if she was reporting the lecture for a newspaper.
Her laugh was the kind of merry expressive tune he couldn’t remember when he’d heard last. Perhaps she was flattered, but had to say no. ‘I want to remember some of the wonderful things he came out with. I love all his books.’
He was careful to assume the sort of accent a local worthy and not a factory worker would use. ‘My favourite is Glebe Farm. I couldn’t put it down.’
‘Well, it’s good but have you read Bird of Paradise?’
‘No.’
‘Or Life on the Heaviside Layer?’
He made space for her through the crowd on the institute steps. ‘I’ve been trying to get that one for months, but it’s never on the shelves.’
‘What about Never Say Never?’ she asked. ‘Have you read that?’ She knew them all. ‘He’s written a lot. There’s Fires of Love, The Far Side of Heaven, The Lady from Leatherhead.’
‘I’ll get them as soon as I can.’
‘You must. He’s so good. Better than J. B. Priestley.’
They walked slowly, crossing the road at the lights. She must have read all twenty. Or was it forty? He agreed that W. J. Hawksworth was a great writer, and would she like to go into a coffee bar where they could talk about him some more? Maybe she was married, but he thought her too special to worry about that. Anyway, he couldn’t see a ring.
Her yes encouraged him to think that he interested her. The dragon hiss of jets steamed from behind the counter, and to see her shapely little nose twitching at the reek of bacon cobs told him it was an unusual place for her, which was even more promising. The cream silk scarf at the opening of her white blouse made it hard to gauge the size of her breasts, or even their shape. He also noted her soft suede gloves and leather handbag, as well as her fashionable New Look coat, and stylish shoes. Who, he wondered, did she think she had taken up with?
After his working day, and the effort of absorbing all that might be useful from Hawksworth’s chatter, he was happy to let her continue with glistening eyes about novels he would never read while there was still so much good stuff to catch up on. At a convenient break he stretched his hand across the table. ‘I’m Herbert Gedling, by the way.’