‘A couple o’ months.’
‘I suppose you’ve got a licence?’
‘What’s one o’ them? Course I ’ave. I took the test last week; passed first time.’
‘Is it taxed?’
‘What do you think that is on the windscreen? A Guinness label? Come on, and I’ll tek yer to Aspley for a run round the estate. If Macmillan says we’ve never ’ad it so good I want to ’ave it good as well, if not better.’ He opened the kerbside door for Bert to get in. ‘When I see somebody in a posh car who’s rich I don’t want to nick his money — I just want to be rich myself.’
Archie the demon driver bawled at the dilatory, and cursed the speed mongers until he had passed them as well, his reaction micrometer-tuned. Bert felt no anxiety that he would chock or be chocked. He would certainly make a good job of driving the sun chariot across the sky.
‘My motto is,’ Archie’s eyes gleaming at a straight bit of road, ‘nobody in front, and nobody behind. If you see somebody in your rear mirror, it don’t matter how far away he is, he’s right behind you.’
Beyond the middle of town Archie got out and tied L-plates back and front. ‘Come on, Bert, there’s no traffic here, so it’s your turn to have a go at the wheel. But whatever you do,’ he said, showing the gears, ‘don’t drive like me, or you’ll never pass your test.’
‘I never like to tek tests.’
‘Nor me, but this one you’ll ’ave to, sooner or later. Don’t worry about it, though. You either get through, or you don’t, and if you don’t you can allus tek it again.’
‘I suppose so.’ Archie was more locked into the world and its ways than Bert ever could be, Herbert thought, because he never had to question who he was or continually mistrust himself. He was solid enough to show such confidence in a friend that he could even offer him the wheel of his car, which was as close to love as any two people could hope to get.
One machine was much like another. At the controls it was a matter of synchronization, the only difficulty being that man and machine moved at the same time, which Herbert soon got used to because Archie was a patient instructor. Bert enjoyed driving so much that Herbert wondered why he hadn’t bought a car years ago, in which case he could have driven to London and impressed that fuckpig Dominic even more with his proletarian dexterity.
The galley proofs of Royal Ordnance came with a covering note from Dominic. Herbert tackled the tight knots of the string, no problem to industrialized fingernails. He got it off in one length because Mrs Denman kept a drawer full, having the habit, even so long after the war, of not wanting to waste anything.
The long story was so enthralling it seemed to have been written by somebody else. All was clear, everything was in place, as he read from sheet to sheet, though by the end he sensed it might not be so, and a second reading showed printing errors missed on the first time through.
The dedication page was blank, no name, no words of memory or appreciation, nothing to thank anybody for. He wanted to write: ‘To Bert Gedling, without whose labour and life’s blood this book would never have been written.’ Or maybe: ‘To Herbert Thurgarton-Strang, without whose help this confidence trick of a novel could not have been cobbled together.’ But such notes would betray him to the wolves, who would rip him even further apart than he already was because of the stunt he was playing on them.
His sense of loss seemed beyond a joke, knowing he should dedicate the book to Cecilia because writing it had cost him her love. The fresh clean sheets were soaked in the invisible ink of shared memories, which he wanted to retain for his own special hoarding till the emptiness in him was filled with something else — or he became bored and no longer interested in picking up bits of the book at random with which to torment himself.
The sheets were needed urgently, the slip of paper said, and so, turning back to the dedication page, he wrote: ‘For Beryl Denman’, then posted the package back, by which time he felt almost the same enthusiasm for the book that Humphries had shown.
Archie navigated him over the Trent and into a maze of lanes beyond the Fosse Way. A haycart or occasional tractor held them up, or a dozen cattle being shifted by dog and man to another field. Wheeling and turning through villages where hardly anyone seemed to live gave safe practice at the controls, so easy for Herbert till for some reason he saw beyond the windscreen the climbing of the lorry into the mountains of Cyprus. The woman in the vineyards looked at him, and he felt the same agonizing pull, seeing the curve of her breast as she lifted her arms, the houri eyes, the benevolent and promising smile.
Sunlight flooded the turning, and a tree came towards him, arms of privet and hawthorn ready to embrace him for a meal. He swung the wheel, slid along the bank and let the skid carry him till he was able to straighten out. Heartbeats pounded to his head as tyres scraped the verge, missing the tree and almost hitting another.
Archie, unnaturally still, said nothing. Herbert stared ahead, back to more measured driving. ‘That was careless. It won’t happen again.’ Such a near call unsettled him, seared his throat, and maybe Archie’s, since he indicated the way to a snug pub at Cropwell Bishop.
When cool beer and salty crisps were on the table, Bert said: ‘What’s up wi’ yo’? Ye’re too bleddy quiet for my liking. You’ve hardly said a word all evening.’
‘Tek yer sweat. We’ll have a sup o’ this first.’
I’ve more than enough material, but something’s eating him, so I have to listen. Convinced he knew everything already, Herbert considered it time to quit. He’d soaked up people’s troubles like a sponge, and felt he was sinking under water.
‘I’ll tell yer.’ Archie flipped open a packet of Senior Service, smoke soon drifting from his lips. Herbert saw him as a much regarded man of the local world, dovetailed into every square and circle; whereas he, Herbert, had problems only death could settle, though he expected to keep it at bay for the usual three score and ten. ‘Go on, then, tell me.’
‘Can’t yer guess?’ Archie leaned across, as if walls still had ears. ‘I’ve got a girl up the spout.’
‘You’ve what?’
‘In the club, on the tub, a bun in the oven, preggers.’
‘So what? She’s married, in’t she?’
‘Is she fuck.’
‘Yer didn’t use owt?’
His bitter laugh suggested he had turned at last into a victim of Fate. The following smile indicated that he did not altogether dislike the fact. ‘I’d got a frenchie in my pocket. I allus ’ave, you know that, but summat stopped me bothering. We was in her house on a Saturday night while her mam and dad was out at the boozer. I didn’t think I’d get it in that night, but she looked at me, and I looked at her, and suddenly we was latched on. I went in raw. In no time at all we was going at it like rabbits in a thunderstorm. Never known owt like it. Fuckin’ madness! She’s a lovely girl, long red hair, and tits like a statue’s. Only nineteen, as well. I must have bin in love with her. I still am. I can’t stop thinkin’ about her. When she says she loves me I believe her. She says it every time we meet, and I love to hear it, just as she does when I say it to her. It’s marvellous. Such a nice girl, as well. She’s a Catholic, at least her family is, mam and dad Irish. She wants a lot o’ kids, but we shall have to see about that.’
He knew Archie would make a superb father. ‘Then it’s no problem, is it?’
‘I suppose not. I’m thirty, and I’ve ’ad a good run for my money. It’s about time. I’ll be all right with her.’
Herbert could only think of saying: ‘We’ve got to grow up sooner or later, Archie, my owd.’