(5/20)Over the Gate Read online

  'Miserable of faggot!' was Jessie's comment, in the privacy of the tiny back bedroom to which they had been shown. 'Some holiday this is going to be, Alf! You should've had more sense than to accept Dusty's invitation. He's properly under her thumb, poor soul!'

  It was indeed a most uncomfortable time. The children were scolded if they brought in sand on their shoes, or sheds in their pockets. Jessie, bridling, did her utmost to keep silent for the sake of poor shame-faced Dusty, as much as for her own family. But everyone was relieved when Saturday came and they could return home.

  The two women pecked each other's cheeks through their veils. The men shook hands a shade too heartily, and avoided each other's eyes. The children smiled more freely than they had done all the week, as they hung out of the train window.

  'Never again!' exclaimed Jessie, as the train left Weymouth station. She withdrew two long hatpins from her straw hat, threw it on the rack, fussed up her fringe, and leant back with a sigh.

  'That's the last I want to see of Edie Miller!' said Jessie flatly.

  It was, in fact, the last that she did see of Edie, or Dusty. For before the year was out, jolly lively Jessie was operated on for cancer, and died under the anaesthetic. Alf was inconsolable.

  Ursula was ten at the time of her mother's death. The boys were twelve and thirteen. Jessie's mother, a widow who lived nearby, took over the running of the house and the upbringing of the children. For Alf, it seemed as if the sun had gone for ever. For months he went about, looking like a shadow of his usual jaunty self, but gradually he recovered. His customers were glad to see his return to cheerfulness. He threw himself with renewed fervour into his work and into such activities as the British Legion's affairs. He and Dusty met often, but never spoke of the holiday which had been Jessie's last.

  Years passed, and the two boys went out to work in New Zealand, where they married and settled. Ursula took over the housekeeping when their grandmother died, and Alf and his daughter rubbed along fairly well together.

  She was nothing like her mother, Alf used to think, watching her at the other side of the hearth. She was thin and angular, with a sharp tongue and a way of tossing her head, when crossed, which Alf recognised as a danger signal. He was secretly relieved when she became engaged to a young man from Northampton, and he gave her away without a pang.

  Then began for Alf some of the happiest years of his life. He was free to do as he pleased. His work ran smoothly, his health was good, his spirits remarkably gay now that he had the house to himself. A neighbour cleaned the flat once a week, and for the rest of the time the dust gathered gently, the oven remained cold, and only the frying pan and kettle were in general use. Life was very simple.

  He began to see more of Dusty Miller. Both men were now in their sixties and had plenty of reminiscences to share. During the Second War Dusty had been to the forefront in Civil Defence at Weymouth. Alf had been in the Fire Service, and both had experienced hair-raising episodes. Somehow, they did not talk of these. It was always the First World War which engrossed their attention. They relived the flight from Mons, the tedium and terror of trench life and die horror of that day when L Battery was wiped out beside them. They reminded each other, too, of lighter moments. Did Alf remember the time when his horse wheeled smartly into the pub yard as was its wont, leaving the colonel, whom he was accompanying, looking thunderstruck on the highway? Did Dusty recall die occasion when he played die piano in the pub, and generous comrades filled his tumbler with Benedictine, so that he began to think that he was playing a two-manual organ?

  Time passed all too quickly when the old soldiers met. Dusty now ran a small car and frequently took Alf out. Sometimes, Alf stayed a day or two at Weymouth. Edie was civilly welcoming, but it was Dusty who did the real entertaining. The Millers had no family, and all Edie's energy seemed to go into the running of the flourishing business. The two men seemed to see very Utile of her.

  'Don't forget, old boy,' said Dusty, on many occasions, 'there's always a home here for you, if you get tired of your own company. Just say the word. Plenty of room for one more.'

  Alf was grateful, and failed to notice that on these occasions Edie was either absent, or silent.

  When Alf was seventy he had the first real illness of his life. It had been a miserable December, cold and foggy. Mists from the Thames hung over the area where Alf lived and worked, making life doubly difficult at the busy time before Christmas. Handling frozen meat, his hands numb and aching, Alf began to feel his age. The round seemed to take twice as long as usual, hampered as he was with fog and extra orders. Customers were short-tempered, the traffic was frustrating, and Alf looked forward to the Christmas break with more fervour than he had ever felt before.

  One night, a few days before Christmas, he returned home late and tired. His chest was unusually painful. To breathe was difficult; to cough was agonising. Reluctantly, after a night of wakefulness, he dragged himself to the local doctor's surgery.

  'Bed for you,' was the verdict. 'Who is there to look after you?'

  'No one,' said Alf. 'Well, I've a daughter, but she's in Northampton.'

  'See if she can come down,' said the doctor, handing him a prescription. 'I'd be in tomorrow morning.'

  Ursula, with a martyred expression, arrived the next evening. She made it quite clear that her duty really lay with her husband and children, that it was most inconvenient to leave home with so much to do, and that only her filial devotion had brought her so swiftly to her father's bedside. Alf thought, yet again, how different she was from her warm-hearted mother. If only his Jessie had still been alive! A tear, born of weakness, crept down his cheek, and Ursula, noticing it, was glad to see how grateful the old fellow was to her.

  Two wretchedly uncomfortable days followed, while Ursula grew steadily more dictatorial and her father grew steadily weaker. The doctor, summing up the situation, removed Alf to hospital, warning Ursula that he might not be fit to live alone when he was well enough to be discharged.

  'I don't need to be reminded of my duty,' said Ursula, bridling. 'Dad's got a home with us at Northampton whenever he wants it.'

  'He'll want it very soon,' the doctor assured her.

  It was a sad day for Alf, some weeks later, when he left the flat which had been his home for so long. A few treasured pieces of furniture travelled ahead to Northampton, the rest went to local auction rooms.

  One windy March day of blinding rain, Alf took the train to the Midlands, with a very heavy heart.

  He knew, as soon as he crossed the threshold, that it would never work. There was something about the angular light wood hat-stand in the had, and the overpowering aroma of floor polish that met him, which seemed to epitomise the unwelcoming quality of Ursula's abode.

  He had been allotted the front room, a bleak, north-facing apartment, sparsely furnished. An iron bedstead, with a thin mattress and frosty white counterpane, took up the space by the window. The lino, printed to look like parquet blocks, shone like a mirror. A skimpy rug slid about the polished surface whenever anyone was rash enough to step on it. A small one-bar electric fire did its best to cast a little warmth into the room, but failed miserably.

  Alf's two grandchildren came into the room to greet him. They were an unprepossessing pair. Sandra was a lumpy, sandy-haired eight-year-old, and Roger a skinny, rabbit-toothed boy of eleven. Both had adenoids and breathed habitually through their mouths. As they ate almost without cessation, the spectacle of his grandchildren did not encourage Alf's affection for them.

  Their father was a lorry driver, a man of few words, but enormous appetite. It seemed to Alf, in the months that followed, that Ursula spent most of her time peeling great saucepans full of potatoes to assuage his hunger. He did not see much of his son-in-law, as he worked long hours, and Alf regretted this. It would have been nice to have a man to talk to, now and again. With every week that passed, Alf realised, with increasing despair, how bitter it is not to have a home of one's own.

  He d
id his best to remain equable. Indeed, with his unquenchable Cockney spirit, 'cheerfulness kept breaking in,' whether he would or no. Ursula resented this. She would have liked to see a proper humility, an appreciation of all her hard work. The gay quip, die sardonic aside, any sort of ironic levity, beloved of Alf, smacked of insurrection to Ursula. It was obvious that the old man would rebel one day; and before long, things came to the bod between Ursula and her father.

  The row began, as might be expected, over the children. It was a hot May day, so hot, in fact, that for once Alf was grateful for his cold room. He sat, reading a letter which had come from Weymouth that morning, and looking forward to his tea when the children returned from school.

  Dusty wrote as affectionately as ever. He knew, well enough, that his old friend was unhappy although he had not said so in black and white.

  'Don't forget, what I've said before,' wrote Dusty, 'that you are welcome here any time you like to come.'

  Alf found great comfort in that sentence. He read it several times before returning the letter to its envelope on the table, and then settled back for a doze.

  Before long he awoke. The two children were in the room, the boy gazing out of the window, and Sandra-Alf's anger rose as his senses returned—Sandra was reading Dusty's letter.

  He struggled to his feet and made towards the table.

  'Don't you dare meddle with my things!' stormed the old man. The clnld looked sideways at him and contorted her face, by the lift of one nostril, into a contemptuous sneer. Just so, many years before, Ursula had looked at him, and received a resounding box on the ear.

  Without thinking further, Alf repeated the process, and had one moment of unalloyed pleasure as his palm clouted the sandy head.

  The piercing shrieks that followed brought Ursula hurrying from the kitchen.

  ''E 'it me, mum! I wasn't doing nothin', mum! 'E just 'it me!'

  Ursula's face and neck grew red with wrath.

  'You keep your hands to yourself,' she yelled. 'I can remember your bullying ways when I was her age! Don't you think you can knock my kids about the way you knocked us!'

  'She was reading my letter—' began Alf, but was brushed aside.

  'As though it's not bad enough having you here all the time, burning the firing and the lights, eating us out of house and home—'

  'I pay my own way!'

  Ursula gave a derisive snort.

  'Pay your way?' she echoed. 'And how far do you reckon your bit of pension goes these days?'

  Sandra, seeing attention slipping from her, set up a further bout of snivelling.

  'Mum, I believe I've got mastoid. I do, really! My ear 'urts somethin' awful where 'e 'it me!'

  Ursula threw an arm protectively round her daughter.

  'We'll take you down to the hospital after tea.' She rounded again on the old man.

  'And if she's got a broken ear drum and is deaf for the rest of her days, she'd have you to thank! The ingratitude! That's what gets me—the ingratitude! Here I am, slaving day in, day out, with never a word of thanks for my trouble, and how am I repaid?'

  'Stop play-acting-' began Alf.

  'Play-acting!' screamed Ursula. 'Don't you dare insult me after ad the harm you've done. I've just about had enough of you and your ways!'

  She flung out of the room, dragging Sandra with her. The boy, who had watched the proceedings with sly enjoyment, slid after them. At the door he turned, poked out an impudent tongue, and vanished. Alf was left alone.

  He was more shaken than he cared to admit. He shouldn't have hit the girl, he told himself. He was enveloped in a hot wave of guilt and shame. It receded, leaving him shivering with shock. God, what a hole, he thought, looking round the room! To think of spending the rest of his days in this place, with the added misery of Ursula and the children!

  His eye fell upon Dusty's letter. In ad that bleak room it was the only spot of comfort. Why should he stay? Why should he endure the humiliation of living with Ursula? He had his pension. He had a true old friend—a friend, moreover, who offered him a real home.

  With growing purpose he went to his bed, reached beneath it for his battered suitcase, and set it open upon the white counterpane.

  Methodically, with the exactitude of an old soldier, he began to pack his possessions. He was off.

  'That was Thursday,' said the old man, reaching for his glass. He sounded bemused. 'And now it's Saturday. Seems a lifetime ago, miss—a lifetime.'

  He gazed into the distance towards the towering downs, but I guessed that he was looking beyond them to the life that he had left behind in Northampton. He looked very old, very vulnerable, to be alone and with no home. I felt uneasy.

  'And your daughter?' I enquired. 'You told her where you were going?'

  I could imagine the remorse which might well be gnawing at any woman in her position, despite the portrait of flinty-hearted indifference the old man had drawn of her.

  'Left a note,' said the stranger perfunctorily. 'Just told her I'd had an invitation from Dusty, and this seemed a good time to go down there.'

  'So she'd expect you back some time?' I said. It was a relief to know that he had not burnt his boats completely.

  'Never!' he shouted, sitting bolt upright. 'Not if she begged and prayed of me! I've had more'n I can take there. Never again!'

  He scrambled to his feet, still looking belligerent. His gaze flickered over the sunny garden as though he saw it for the first time, and he turned to look directly at me. The anger faded into a smile.

  'You bin good to me, miss, letting me run on like I have. I must be getting along.'

  He fished inside his jacket and brought out a smad creased map. He unfolded it carefully, and I noticed that his fingers shook. Across its grubby surface a thick ruled line ran from Northampton to Weymouth.

  'There's my route,' he said proudly, holding up the map. 'Always like a bit of map work ever since my Army days. I'm a bit off true here, but no matter. Reckon if I make for Salisbury Plain I shan't be far off'

  He stuffed the map back in his pocket and began to hoist the case across his shoulders again.

  'You're not walking ad the way?' I asked anxiously.

  'Not me!' he said. 'I've hitch-hiked most of it so far, but took a fancy to have a walk this morning. Haven't seen the country on a sunny day—not to notice it, I mean—ever since Jessie died. Brought her back to me somehow, being alone and peaceful, out in the fresh air.'

  'Make for Caxley,' I said. 'But wait here a minute.'

  I returned to the house and looked in my purse. As usual it was remarkably light, but there was a pound note. Why, I wondered, was it always the end of the month when such emergencies arose? I hastened out again and pressed it upon him.

  'No, miss,' he protested. 'I got a bit by, you know.'

  'If you don't get a lift, go by train,' I urged him. 'You don't want to arrive absolutely knocked up.'

  He pocketed the note and we walked together to the gate. He was smiling now, as though at some pleasurable secret.

  'Can't wait to sec ol' Dusty's face when I turn up,' he said, over the gate.

  'You haven't told them?' I asked, my heart sinking.

  'Why should I?' he replied reasonably. 'I know ol' Dusty means it when he says I can go any time.' His tone was warm and affectionate. His wrinkled old face glowed at the thought of the welcome ahead.

  He straightened himself up and gave me a smart salute.

  'Thanks for everything, miss, bless you. Think of me paddlin' in a day or two!'

  Within two minutes I watched the little figure disappear round the bend of the lane. Despite the sunshine, I shivered, for I could not help dunking of the woman that Dusty should never have married, the stringy one with the sharp nose, who was 'white and spiteful'.

  Poor Alf, I mourned, poor Alf!

  Yes, some of our Fairacre visitors arc lively birds. The gipsies, in their clashing colours, look as exotic and gay as any parrot from the East. But I remember Alf as a wren, perky an
d completely English but somehow infinitely pathetic in his smallness.

  I think of him often, the stranger who called but once. Will he ever return?

  I can't be certain, but I have a feeling that Alf was on his last flight that summer day.

  11. The Old Man of the Sea

  'IT'S my belief,' announced Mrs Pringle, as she baled boiling water from the electric copper into the washing-up bowl, 'that they over-ate themselves.'

  'I thought they were rather more abstemious than usual,' I replied. 'Uusally they start eating as we reach the end of the lane, and continue until we get to Barrisford.'

  'Shameful!' ejaculated Mrs Pringle, flinging a trayful of sticky cutlery mto the water. The noise was deafening.

  'Then it's a quick dash into the sea, out again, and time for a solid lunch. This time they didn't appear to eat so much on the journey. Unless I'm getting used to it,' I added.

  We were trying to probe the mystery of the many absences from school on this particular Monday morning. Almost a third of the desks were empty, and I suspected that general inertia was the common complaint after a long day at the sea on Saturday. Mrs Pringle argued for gluttony alone, but I have never found Fairacre children suffering from delicate digestions. Their appetites, quickened by the winds which sweep the downs, are enormous, and their digestive tracts are quite accustomed to coping with a steady supply of ices, sweets, fruit, fizzy drinks, as well as four hefty meals a day.

  'Could be typhoid, of course,' said Mrs Pringle chattily. 'There was a bit on the telly about the sewage going into the sea. Fair gives you the creeps! I said to Pringle: "The way folks live! Thank God we've got a nice wholesome cess-pit!"'

  She plunged her hands into the steaming water and withdrew a fistful of dripping dessert-spoons, lately used for gooseberry pie.