a good thumping, and if your parents didn’t do it, one of the neighbours would. If anything went missing from a house in our street all we had to do was find Billy Jones, who lived a few doors away. Somebody would put a fist under his nose, and make him give back what he’d nicked. If Billy said it wasn’t him you showed him the other fist and then he’d tell you who it was. I think thieving was in his blood. A woman spotted him taking a meat grinder from under his coat at the pawnshop one Monday morning, and knew it belonged to Mrs Greatton, so she gave him a terrible pasting, and took it back to her.’
Brian laughed. ‘It nearly always was him’ – though you might also say Poor Old Billy, who had even more scars inside than out, and almost from birth had never known where his next meal was coming from. He belonged, if that was the word, to parents who fought all the time, when they weren’t boozed up on dole money, or on the proceeds of whatever their children earned or stole.
‘They had eight kids and a grandma in that family,’ Arthur said, ‘and I’ll never know how all eleven fitted into one little house. I expect they slept in a row on the floor. I went in one day to call for one of the kids, and I nearly got gassed. Nowadays I expect they’d all be in care.’
‘Most families managed better than that,’ Brian said, knowing that not a few of his mates, including Billy Jones, had been packed off to Borstal and then to prison. It was easier to get sent down, because the police looked into every small crime, if they got to know about it.
‘I’ll keep an eye on you at the party,’ Arthur told him, after a silence. ‘You were lucky Jenny’s daughter invited the whole Seaton mob and not just you.’
Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her after all this time. She would certainly look different, and so would he. Mutually knowing each other on the street would be impossible. At sixteen she’d been robust and full of hope, lived only for the passing day, earned her living and had nothing to fear from anybody. If she imagined the future it was only to picture the man who would fall in love with her generosity and treat her as she deserved. SCUM would have his bollocks for thinking so, but in those days it was true, and in any case Jenny would have laughed at such notions.
On days when they walked out, a freshly ironed blouse covered her bosom, and an open brown cardigan (which she had knitted) draped over that, the brown skirt not so low that he couldn’t see her legs. Hair cut in a fringe across her pale forehead fell long and dark over her shoulders.
As a self-absorbed sixteen-year-old youth he had stood on a winter’s evening by the arched redbricked gateway of a clothing factory with Pete Welbeck who was waiting for his sweetheart Lottie. She came out arm in arm with Jenny, among scores of other women who worked eight hours a day among the noise and dust of sewing machines, long rows in a vast room, three floors of women running up pieces of khaki serge to make uniforms, hair hidden from speeding belts by turbans which outlined their features like bathing caps, some worn to show the colour of hair underneath. The only males to be teased and flirted with were lads below the age of eighteen who shifted enormous bundles, or acted as rudimentary toolsetters, tutored by one or two chargehands over military age.
The vitality in Jenny’s gait, even after a day’s work, illuminated her good nature beneath which, nevertheless, a calculated stoicism blandly assessed whoever she looked at. Pete told him next morning that she had been curious about him as well, wanting to know his age, where he worked, and what street he lived in.
They had no photographs from those days, not even separate ones to exchange. Camcorders were ten a penny now, but few people had cameras during the war or for a long time afterwards. Yet the memory was so much richer for dragging scenes back through the haze, whereas clear photographs would do nothing for the reality he and Jenny had known.
Walking the streets, they were said to be courting, but he had never thought the responsibility applied to him, a feckless workman of seventeen (by the time they had split) and nowhere near as staid as Jenny expected. She was too proud, or lackadaisical, or too imbued with a paralysing infusion of both, to broach the fact, only wanting him to speak the homely promise and sooner rather than later.
He knew well enough what she wanted but, in his juvenile slyness, let her wait, caring only that their weekends of love would go on for as long as forever might be. You didn’t think about getting older, or making up your mind on anything as deadly as wedlock, which locked you up and no mistake, having only to recall the past miseries of his parents to know that such a state was not for him.
The parting was sudden, though he had known for some time that she wouldn’t for much longer endure his wilful indecisiveness. He lacked direction in the world as it was, lived in a dream he couldn’t let her share, because even not knowing exactly what it was, he wanted it for himself alone. On the other hand his sensibility, not entirely blunted by selfishness, knew all too well what was in her mind.
Meeting one evening on the street as arranged, she told him she was fed up and didn’t want to see him anymore, but was going for a walk with a couple of girls a few yards away laughing, as if they had put her up to it, he thought. The three of them would sit in the pictures and see what lads they could pick up. He was surprised at a firmness she had given no sign of before, knowing from her tone it was no use arguing, that such determination to pack him in was a kindness that saved him pleading for her not to do so.
In any case he didn’t want to, and his self-esteem suffered no bruising because he went out with another girl too soon afterwards to wonder whether Jenny had chucked him or he had chucked her. There were all the boys for the asking and all the girls for the taking, always had been and always would be plenty more pebbles on the beach, so you had to make hay while the sun still shone.
The same pure breeze from the Derbyshire hills came through the car window on its way to the middle of Nottingham. In winter it was cold enough to work through the thickest jacket, but the benediction of sweet air at the moment brought back all youth’s hopes and expectations.
‘We’ll be a bit early,’ Arthur said, ‘but I expect they’ll let us in at The Crossbow. Jenny’s daughter’s booked the upstairs room from eight o’clock.’ A mile away to the right the M1 crossed the old bucolic courting grounds of Trowel Moor, slicing a wood and a few fields out of existence to make room for a service station. ‘Something else gone forever.’
So will we be soon enough, but Brian didn’t say so because Avril had cancer, and in any case they were going to a celebration. Jenny’s daughter had written to him in London that she and the other grown-ups were arranging a surprise birthday party, and would he come up for it? ‘She talks about you now and again, so I know she would love you to be there.’
You can’t say no to a request which might give some meaning to your life. Why otherwise had he said yes? His existence couldn’t have been more different from Jenny’s, and that of the man she went on to meet. At nineteen she’d got pregnant, and the baby was now the woman of fifty who had organized the surprise party for her mother. After having the daughter Jenny got married and bore six more kids from a man who was to wish many times he had never been born.
‘She used to come up to the house now and again, and have a cup of tea with mam,’ Arthur called out. ‘I suppose she had to talk about her troubles, or she would have gone off her head. She used to reminisce about when she’d gone out with you, which cheered her up a bit. Mam liked her a lot.’ He aimed for a black cat, knowing it would get out of the way, which it did, just, so that they all laughed. ‘You brought Jenny home for tea once, do you remember? But mam knew her parents already, because everybody knew everybody in those days.’
Brian nodded. ‘Jenny’s old man was a cheerful bloke, though I expect he knew what I was getting up to with his daughter. Luckily, he was fond of his ale, and went out with his wife to the pub every Friday and Saturday night.’
