Get Carter (5 page)

I got off the stool and went into the scullery and turned the wireless off. It was half past eight. Outside, a milk trolley was whirring by. I went back into the kitchen.

“Would you like a fag?” I said.

She nodded and put the cup down. I lit us up. She didn’t smoke too badly even though she was conscious of it. After a few drags, I said:

“What do you intend doing now?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, you won’t be staying here, will you?”

She shook her head.

“Look,” I said, “I know you don’t know me very well and what you do know you don’t like, but I’m going to suggest something to you. You probably won’t be very keen on the idea, but I want you to think about it over the next few days: I’m off to South Africa next week. With a woman I may or may not end up marrying. We’re flying on Wednesday. I’ve got three tickets. Why don’t you come with us?”

She looked at me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.

“Think about it. I’d like you to come. If only to square certain things with your dad.”

“Charming,” she said. “You make me feel real wanted.”

“I’ll be here all over the weekend,” I said. “So you’ve time to think about it.”

“No thanks.”

She carried on looking at me. I looked at my watch.

“They’ll be here at quarter to,” I said. “Do you want five minutes with him before they come?”

She looked away. She was her fifteen years again.

“No.”

“He’d want it,” I said.

She sobbed, once.

“Go on,” I said. “You’ve just time.”

She put her cigarette down on her saucer and went through. Five minutes later she came out. Her face was wet and her eyes were red.

I put my jacket on and went into the front room. I stood next to the casket. The face looked up at the ceiling. There was never anything so still as that face.

I heard a motor outside and then there was a knock at the door.

“Ta-ra, Frank,” I said.

I turned away and walked out of the room via the door that led into the hall. I opened the front door. The man in the tall hat was there.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, in that voice they all have.

We left the church and got into the car again. Doreen and I got into the back and the Vicar got in next to the driver. We drove along the back streets. At one point an old josser on a bike just as old gave us right of way at a junction and slowly and gravely raised his hat.

After a bit the Vicar leant his arm on the back of his seat and looking around him said:

“You’ll see some changes in the town since you’ve been away, Mr. Carter.”

“A few,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “Things are changing. But not quickly enough to my mind. One day, though, all this will be gone. And then, thank heaven, people will have somewhere decent to bring up their children. Somewhere they’ll want to go home to instead of the street.”

I said: “Always assuming what they replace it with will be better.”

“Oh,” he said, “but it must be. It’s bound to be.”

“Is it?” I said.

I looked at him. He had sandy hair and glasses and a yellow face. It was impossible to tell how old he was.

We rolled down the hill to the cemetery. The day was bright and windy and low grey fluffy clouds raced across the thin sun.

At the graveside apart from the Vicar and the digger and the undertaker’s men there was me and Doreen and
two blokes who’d been waiting near where the coffin had been unloaded. One of them was about fifty, the other about twenty-two or -three. They looked like barmen and no mistake. They were neatest around the neck, with their clean white collars and neat knots, but the smartness tapered off the lower down their bodies you got and they were scruffiest round their feet. They stood there with their heads bowed and their hands clasped in front of them, a bit behind me and Doreen.

I held her hand while the Vicar said the words. The grave-digger was unshaven and wore a big ex-army greatcoat with the collar turned up and all through the Vicar’s spiel he kept looking at Doreen, the dirty old sod.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

I reached down and picked up a handful of earth and gave some to Doreen. The barmen stepped forward and got some as well and we showered the lowering coffin. The barmen stepped back. The older one put his hand to his mouth and coughed and stood to attention and the younger one shot his cuffs.

The Vicar led us into “Rock of Ages.” Doreen got past the first few words then shook and didn’t sing any more. The grave-digger went to work with his shovel. Wind whistled through my black mohair. A dozen or so rows away two middle-aged women in grey hats paused to watch as they picked their way among the headstones.

And then that was it.

I guided Doreen away from the grave. She stumbled as she took one look back at what she didn’t understand. The barmen stepped back to let us by. I nodded to them.

We got to the cars. I looked towards the gates. A woman with blonde hair wearing a bright green belted coat was standing beyond the railings.

“Is that Margaret?” I said.

Doreen nodded.

I looked across at the woman. She didn’t move. Doreen got in the car still crying.

“Hang on a minute,” I said. I turned to the barmen who were walking in the direction of the cars, lighting up.

“Can you wait?” I called.

They looked at each other. The older one looked at his watch and nodded. I walked over to the gates. Margaret was still there and she didn’t attempt to move. She wasn’t bad looking. The only thing being that she looked exactly what she was: a singing room belle.

“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” I said.

“I changed me mind,” she said.

There was a trace of a London accent on top of her broad Northern.

“I’m glad,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

“What about?”

“Doreen,” I lied.

She looked across to the waiting cars.

“Did—did everything go off all right?” she said.

“Fine. The arrangements were fine. Thanks.”

Her eyes were just as wet as those sort of eyes will ever be.

“I want to talk to you,” I said again.

She carried on looking at the cars.

“How’s Doreen?”

“How’d you expect?” I said. “She know about you and Frank?”

Margaret gave me a smile that meant she thought I had something missing.

“She knew. Why shouldn’t she?”

“Because, like, I was thinking, can’t you come back with us? Now? I mean, Doreen needs somebody and I’m not much use.”

She shook her head.

“I can’t,” she said, “so don’t ask.”

“Well, when? I mean, I’ve got to settle up things before I go back. How about later on?”

“No,” she said.

“Sometime tomorrow?”

She looked at me.

“All right,” she said. “Tomorrow morning. In The Cecil at twelve.”

“That’s where Frank worked,” I said.

“I know,” she said. “I go there because it’s a long walk for me husband from where we live.”

“All right.” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She turned and began to walk away.

I watched her for a minute then I went back into the cemetery.

I opened the front door. Doreen went in first and the two barmen followed. In the hall Doreen took her hat off.

“Go through,” I said to the blokes. “I shan’t be a minute.”

I went upstairs and got some ginger ales and two bottles of scotch out of my hold-all. When I got downstairs Doreen was in the kitchen and the two blokes were standing in front of the fireplace lighting up again.

“Will this do?” I said, holding up the bottle.

“Oh, well,” said the older one, “thanks very much.”

“Ta,” said the younger one.

They tried to look solemn and appreciative at the same time.

I went through into the kitchen. Doreen was making some tea.

“Doreen, love,” I said, “could you tell me where there’s any glasses, please?”

She indicated a cabinet. I took out the glasses and began pouring the scotch.

“How long are they going to be?” she said.

“I don’t know, love,” I said. “Not long.”

I took the top off a ginger ale and filled a small jug with water.

“Will you have one?” I said. “It’ll do you good.”

Doreen took a long look at the bottle, then got hold of it and poured herself some. She took it straight back and made a face and then stared into the bottom of the glass. I poured three large ones and took them through.

“Water or ginger?” I said.

It was water for the older one and ginger for the younger one.

I went back into the kitchen. Doreen had taken another drink.

“Are you going to join us?” I said.

She shook her head. I put my hand on her shoulder.

“Suit yourself, love,” I said. “Just do what you want.”

I went through again. I put the ginger and the jug and the bottle I’d opened on the low table in front of the divan.

“Dig in,” I said.

They helped themselves.

“Absent friends,” I said.

“Absent friends,” they said.

We drank.

The older one was called Eddie Appleyard. He had frizzy black hair, quite long, brushed straight back from his forehead and long sideboards that spread across his cheeks in whispy patches that were turning grey. He had false teeth that didn’t fit properly. He was a local.

The younger one was called Keith Lacey. He had the face and build of a young footballer. The face was flat the body compact and stocky. His hair was fair and it had been curly before he’d had it given a crew cut. He wore a gold ring on the third finger of his left hand. He was from Liverpool.

I filled up the glasses.

“Well,” I said. “I’d like to say thanks for coming.”

“Don’t thank us, Mr. Carter,” said Eddie. “Frank was a good bloke.”

“He was that,” said Keith.

“One of the best,” said Eddie.

“How long had you known him?” I said.

“Me?” said Eddie. “We first got pally when we was working at Lingholme working men’s club. That were, oh, five, six year ago. We got on more or less right from the start like. I left about a year after, went to Crown and Anchor, but we used to see each other on Saturdays. He’d
changed his job as well and neither of us was far from ground and we used to meet outside at half past three after we’d done siding up. We’d buy a couple of hot pies outside and take ’em in ground with us and we’d have missed about half an hour of game but we always used to go. Never missed a game, not even when they went down to third division for a bit.”

“Aye,” I said, “he liked his football, did Frank. We always used to go when we was kids.”

“I couldn’t believe it when I heard,” said Keith. “I mean, I was surprised when he didn’t turn up for evening session, because like, Frank was always on time, always first in. But when I heard, I mean, I couldn’t understand it. I mean, Frank only drank halves. And he always used to say that whenever he went out for a drink he’d always leave his car behind so’s he could enjoy himself.”

“I know,” I said. “Frank was always careful.”

There was a silence.

“I still can’t believe it,” said Keith.

We all drank. I moved the bottle round again.

“Everybody liked Frank,” said Eddie.

There was more silence.

“He always spoke well of you, Mr. Carter,” said Keith. “He always said he admired you for getting on so well.”

Frank had always said that to people. Perhaps he’d even got so he thought that way himself.

“It’s a bloody funny thing, though,” said Eddie. “I mean, you know a bloke for six bloody years and all the time he’s as calm as Gentle Jesus, never touches the hard stuff and then he goes off and drinks a bottle of fucking whisky and drives himself off top road and finishes up in three feet of water. It’s not right, you know, it’s not bloody right.” He took a quick drink. “It shouldn’t have happened. Not to a bloke like Frank. He was one of the best.”

His eyes were getting watery. He fumbled a fag into his mouth and I poured some more scotch. Eddie couldn’t find his matches so I lit him up.

“Thanks,” he said, from the back of his throat. Whether it was the scotch or genuine feeling that was breaking Eddie up didn’t really matter because whichever way it was, right now Eddie believed completely in the sincerity of his words.