for Basford Crossing, you can stuff the place, because the only thing that matters is that Avril’s got cancer.
When Brian parked his car some time ago he noticed that one of the streets he had grown up in had been wiped off the face of the earth. Served him right. That was the way it was. What else did you expect? When God said let there be light he painted it in, and then he painted it out. The same with the surface of cities. They needed clearing off and doing up every few decades.
A glimpse of old places set him reviewing the course of his life, though he didn’t like doing so, there being so much to anger and shame him. Such recollections should have been pushed out of harm’s way by now but weren’t. However long he lived it would be the same, otherwise he wouldn’t have left the place of his birth.
Arthur told him never to leave his car in such an area, either in daylight or in the dark, so he hoped it wouldn’t get robbed (not much to nick), vandalized for devilment, or set on fire out of malice. ‘Nothing is safe anymore,’ Arthur said, when they were settled in a snug pub on Prospect Street and could talk without music howling in their ears. ‘Nottingham’s got the worst crime rate in the country, and the worst murder rate. If you stroll through town on Saturday night you risk a cleaver in your guts. When we were kids we walked anywhere, day and night, and nothing would happen. Nowadays, if I wanted to leave my car on the street for a few minutes I’d put a nice looking hip flask on the back seat, but it would have poison inside so that whoever broke in and took a sip would die in agony.’
‘Which would serve ’em right,’ he went on. ‘Cars are owned mostly by people who need them to get to work, but thieves and muggers who break into ’em only do so to get money for drugs, or so they won’t be bored by being too idle to work. It’s the poor who suffer most from crime. The rich have got burglar alarms and guard dogs, and when they drive through areas where druggies live they wind the windows up and put their foot on the accelerator. They could stop crime right away if they wanted, but they don’t because it keeps the poor in their place.’
‘What would you do, though?’
Arthur’s graveyard laugh signified he could think of plenty. ‘It’s unlikely I’ll get the appointment, because I’m too old for the job. But I’d be ruthless. Anybody caught for murder I’d execute in Slab Square, and show it on television. Those who say it wouldn’t make any difference if you did hang ’em, don’t think they’re ever going to get murdered. I’d train a special night force looking like old-age pensioners, but they’d know unarmed combat and carry guns, and if they found any trouble they could pull anybody in and ask ’em what they was up to.
‘I’ve worked all my life and don’t want to live in a place where some snipe-nosed fuckface is going to point a knife at my guts when I go out at night. If I carried a knife and ripped somebody apart who threatened me I’d get sent down for ten years. It’s civil war, and though I’m sixty I wouldn’t mind having a go, because I’m still stronger than most of them. It used to be pleasant living in this town, but some areas are no-go now. I was in town the other week, and when a young bloke said something I thought he only wanted to know the time. He was nearly as tall as me, and had an earring hanging from his left tab hole, and a shaved head that made him look like an Aids victim. He asked me for a quid for a cup of tea, so I told him to fuck off. He shouted after me, but I didn’t want to turn back and smash his face in because there were too many people about. He looked as if he’d never been hungry in his life, nor done a stroke of work either.’
Brian knew he was thinking of his son, Harold, who rarely had a job – a heartbreak father if ever there was one. ‘There isn’t much work these days.’
‘There is if you try hard enough.’ He stared into his pint. ‘You don’t have to beg. Nobody starves, and I wouldn’t want ’em to either. We was brought up on the dole, but we didn’t beg.’
Brian finished his drink. ‘Have another?’
He would. Both did. Brian went for them. Such views as Arthur’s would be in no way agreeable to the people he partied with in London, though after a lifetime away they remained very much his as well, always had been, and he felt no shame having them, though he softened their harshness when with his friends, unless releasing their uncensored force for the pleasure of shocking them, and to let them know there was another side to him. He unpeeled an Antico Toscano bought in Italy, as strong as all get out but tasting like honey when supping a pint of Nottingham ale. ‘I suppose the police do all they can to keep the place under control.’
Arthur blanched at the smell of the cigar. ‘I was wondering where my socks went to when I slung ’em out of bed last night. It stinks like a damp haystack on fire. Well, I expect they’re doing all they can, but I never thought I’d live to say the Nottingham force was too soft. Blokes in prison ought to know they’re banged up. There shouldn’t be any television, no drugs, no sex magazines, no visits, and they’d be locked in dungeons day and night, the walls running with moisture, with only a crust to eat now and again. Anyway, let’s drink up, and see what’s going on at the White Horse.’
The next morning they decided on Matlock, asked Avril to come, but she needed time to run up a dress on her Singer, and in any case could have a meal ready for when they got back.
‘We used to bike this way for fresh air and exercise at the weekends,’ Brian said when they were crossing the motorway. ‘Toiling up and down through the hill towns to open country.’ He had set out for Matlock with Jenny, who hadn’t biked that far before, and was soon worn out with pedalling.
‘It’s only another ten miles,’ Brian said to her in the market place at Ripley. ‘And there aren’t any hills.’ Except a big one on the way back which he didn’t mention. ‘It’s downhill to Ambergate, and flat along the valley the rest of the way. We’ll go slow. You’ll be all right.’
‘I know when I’m done in,’ she had said, and promised to wait in Ripley.
Sharp winds blew from the west, metal blue clouds charging over the livid green hills. Matlock felt dead, the line of dismal shop fronts full of artefacts he didn’t want or couldn’t afford. Hiking parties toiled up a footpath out of the valley, and he envied their freedom and companionship. He didn’t feel like queuing for a boat on the river, or shinning up the Heights of Abraham, but stood bemused by the pavement, not knowing what to do.
He turned the bike around, and every mile to where Jenny would be waiting seemed like ten, all strength necessary to pedal four miles up the hill to Ripley. The wish to see her bolstered him during the struggle, mulling on how good life would be if he could spend it with her, imagining a future of mutual comfort and support in that rhythmical pushing forward of his toecaps against the ever ascending road. In Ripley he would take her to a cafe?for tea and cake and, by the steam of the urn, tell her he wanted them to be engaged. After military service he would say, words she had been waiting for since their first meeting, we can get married. We love each other and will be together for good, the only way to go through life. I’ll find a better job than in the factory, so there’ll be no worry about us having money to live on.
Beyond the houses of Ambergate and into open land towards the summit, trees with their spring shoots wished him well, still no view of the crest for which he was heading. A following wind laid chill hands at the small of his back but helped him to where Jenny would be waiting to greet him in Ripley market place with a kiss of relief and welcome. They would ride home side by side, the ups and downs of the road not so onerous when they were together, talking about how they were made for each other and what a marvellous life they would
