The Levels (12 page)

‘Why?' I said.

‘College.'

‘When?'

‘A couple of days.'

‘On the train?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why don't you take the ambulance?'

‘I'm selling it back to the man I got it from.'

‘So that's what your mother said, about leaving at half two; the time of your train?'

‘Yes.'

‘Muriel … ?'

‘You knew I was going back; what did you expect?'

‘Expect?'

‘Yes.'

‘Nothing; I just thought we were going out.'

‘Did you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Billy?'

‘What?'

‘Don't make it hard on yourself, you're making it hard on me.'

‘Am I?'

‘Yes.'

‘You care?'

‘Billy!'

‘What's your mother doing?'

‘Closing up the house. The rent's paid for a year, she's coming to London next week. You could come and join us.'

‘Join you?'

‘Why not?'

‘In London? What about college?'

‘What about it?'

‘But my old man. I couldn't leave. And mother.'

‘Say you've got to make a choice. Someone's forcing you. Choose. Your parents? Me?'

‘That's not fair.'

‘Yes it is. You've got your own life?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then choose.'

‘I can't.'

‘Why not?'

‘Just like that?'

‘Sure. It's only what youz're trying to make me do.'

‘What?'

‘Choose.'

‘I'm not.'

‘You are. College or Billy.'

‘And the answer?'

‘College.'

‘I mean so little … ?'

‘Billy, you're selfish. There's years ahead for both of us, you want to turn nice memories into something that would never work.'

Nice? Never work?

‘I love you.'

‘I know.'

‘Do you love me?'

‘Of course.'

‘Then say it.'

‘I love you.'

‘You don't mean it.'

‘I do. I love you. I love lots of people.'

‘I've heard.'

‘Meaning?'

‘You're the sort of person that does.'

‘Does what, Billy?'

‘Love lots of people. You know?'

‘There's something wrong with that?'

‘No, only you don't love them like I love you. Not real love. Like the sort I feel. I think you feel something like friends do …'

‘And we're not friends?'

‘Of course we are, but we've done it …'

‘Done what?'

‘You know.'

‘No I don't. Tell me.'

‘Love, made love, you know, and that means more than just us being friends.'

‘Does it? I've made love to lots of my friends.'

‘Have you?'

‘Yes.'

‘How many?'

‘I never counted.'

‘Or lost count?'

‘Billy!'

‘Then how did I rate?'

‘Rate?'

‘You must have a way of scoring us, like five out of ten, six out of ten, ten out of ten?'

‘You wouldn't want to know.'

‘No?'

‘Why not?'

‘It'd be embarrassing.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No; for you.'

‘Me?'

‘You'd be embarrassed.'

‘Would I?'

‘Yes.'

‘Why?'

‘Because you didn't even register a one.'

‘Because I didn't even register a one?'

‘Yes.'

‘Muriel?'

‘What?'

‘How come someone with such a beautiful face has a mind like yours?'

‘You asked me how you rated, I told you.'

‘But I didn't…'

‘I know. You're one of those men who thinks it's all right for him to go flashing it at anything in a skirt, but heaven forbid if the girl you want to shack up with's been doing the same. And I thought you were different.'

‘I am.'

‘From what?'

‘From all the others?'

‘The “others” again.'

‘Why not?'

‘I suppose there aren't any “others” in your blameless life.'

‘No … I mean … there are.'

‘Who?'

‘You don't know them.'

‘Don't I?'

‘No, besides, I never asked who yours were.'

‘Didn't you?'

‘No.'

‘Would you like to know?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I just wouldn't.'

‘John? Richard? Alan? Did I mention these names at all? Maurice or Dave? Philip?

‘Muriel?'

‘What?'

‘Stop it!'

‘Why?'

‘You're hurting me.'

‘Hurting you?'

‘Yes.'

‘I'll stop.'

‘Thank you.'

‘On one condition.'

‘What's that.'

‘We stay friends.'

‘Stranger things have happened.'

‘To you?'

‘No; but I haven't lived in a hole all my life.'

‘Someone lend you a ladder?'

‘I thought you'd given me one.'

‘I want it back.'

‘You can have it.'

‘It was mine in the first place.'

I was so cold. I sat in the shelter of the single tree on Higher Burrow Hill, watching Drove House in the night, waiting for Muriel to turn off her light. It really hurt. I didn't want to go home. I saw some headlamps along the road to Langport, bending and disappearing behind buildings and hedges, reappearing, growing fainter, going; I licked rainwater off my lips, her light went out. Muriel. I imagined her between the sheets, but stood up, turned my back on the house, and walked to Blackwood.

I made four fishing creels, curved bottoms, strong leather straps, fitted canvas covers, for a sports shop in Wellington. I used Bob Wright's willow. I concentrated very hard. I did not allow my mind to wander. I turned everything I knew into the size of a pea and spat it out. I did not care. Four creels. Baskets only a master could make. Baskets strong enough to sit on. Deep enough to carry the largest fish. Four creels. There you go. Pay me what I ask, you can order any number. I have nothing else to do. It would help if you didn't want the fitted canvas covers; these are not easy to get hold of. Yes, I will deliver them. Name the date. The eighteenth? Perfect. I will be free then. No problem.

I stood at the counter, staring at a rack of guns. I fancied a Stanley Repeater. Three foot six of steel tube with a kick that might knock you into next week. A box of shells. I could load up, stalk the moor, shoot anything. With a fatal range of half a mile, a steady wind and hand, my eye, piercing the scene.

‘Young man?'

‘Me?'

‘You want cheque or cash for the creels?'

‘Cash.'

The shopkeepers wore army surplus pullovers, heavy boots, and made a lot of noise.

‘How much is that one?' I said.

‘You got a licence?'

‘What for?'

‘A gun.'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I haven't got a gun.'

It was £340, a great deal of money; could cause a great deal of trouble. I thought about it in a pub, and drank while the barman had a bean contest with the other customer.

‘Borlotti.'

‘Cannellini.'

‘Flagolet.'

‘Ful Medame.'

That's Wellington, stranded in a sea of wind. I drove home. It was not easy to. Thursday. Half-day closing in every town. Faded baskets of flowers hanging in shop doorways. Trying to guess what would go wrong with the van, nursing it to Blackwood, sitting in the workshop with a cup of tea and the door closed. It opened.

‘Billy?'

‘What?'

‘Help me.'

My old man stood outside, the stick he had to use now had slipped from his hand.

‘Pass it back,' he said. I put a chair under the window. ‘Sit down,' I said, ‘you had a cup of tea?'

‘Yes.'

‘Want another?'

‘No.'

‘How's the back?'

‘How's it look? He like the creels?'

‘Suppose so.'

Dick lost Hector again. Chedzoy said he'd have to pay the cost of a new dog. I was asked to help.

‘You looked on West Moor?'

‘No.'

‘Come on!'

I rode pillion to Midelney, pushed the bike down a track and hid it in a wood. The first leaves were turning, greenfinch and blackbirds covered heavy sprays of blackberry, in the twilight an owl perched on a post, watched us walk by; the moon rose, Dick and Billy again. He asked after my old man, offered me a cigarette.

‘Billy?'

‘What?'

‘We find Hector, I'll buy you a drink.'

West Moor buildings stood in the gloomy light, it started to rain, a line of cows moved across the fields to the shelter, I felt hollow, like my body had been emptied.

‘Dick?'

‘What?'

‘I hope we find him.'

I'd had such big ideas, now I walked in the rain with someone I'd ignored for someone less than understandable. But it had been my fault, all my life I wanted to hang onto anything that seemed to care; when I was at school I kept a rabbit, stolen by the milkman; when I was older I found a wounded rook, nursed it back to health, let it free, but it had grown to trust people, landed on a neighbour's lawn, and their dog killed it.

‘I don't care,' I said.

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You're talking to yourself.'

‘So what?'

‘That's the first sign of madness.'

‘Not if there's no one better to talk to.'

‘What does that mean?'

‘Sorry, Dick. I'm …'

‘I know.'

We looked in the buildings, disturbed the cattle, but Hector wasn't there; we walked to Lower Burrow Farm, couldn't find him, Dick said, ‘I don't think I care anymore', and took me to Jackson's garage. In wet weather, the place was even more squalid; half empty, it was cold. Someone was stacking sacks of potatoes against the back wall, five or six buckets collected drips from the roof.

‘Jackson!'

‘Who is it?'

‘Dick!'

We drank the same green cider, smoked cigarettes; we didn't say much. Summer had gone, it seemed winter had arrived already. I had banned all thought from my mind. I did not want to be reminded. I had thrown the memories away, I didn't need them. You can only take so much. I had taken mine. I counted the nails in a floorboard, sat with Dick.

‘We've got a lot in common,' I said.

‘Have we?'

‘Same age. We've lived here all our lives. Do you know what that means.'

‘No.'

‘We've real straw in our hair.'

‘Have we?'

‘Yes.'

‘We haven't.'

‘Dick?'

‘What?'

‘What's the furthest from home you've been?' Dick looked at the floor while the rain came down, scratched his head.

‘Charmouth?' he said, ‘that's quite a long way.'

‘Thirty miles?'

‘Bristol. We went to Bristol.'

‘Fifty.'

‘And …'

‘Dick?'

‘What?'

‘We're originals.'

‘Original what?'

‘Original non-originals.'

I drank so much I saw awful things. Every time I looked down my glass was full.

‘Dick?'

‘What?'

‘Why do you say “what” all the time?'

‘What?'

‘You said it again.'

‘What?'

‘What.'

Autumn, time of mellow fruitfulness; autumn, time of madness, sadness, tears and grief. I didn't care. I didn't think about her anymore. I'd worked it out. If it was to be a train in a couple of days from the last time I'd seen her, that would be tomorrow, Friday, half past two; she would leave forever, thinking any more would be too good for her.

‘Come on,' I heard Dick say, ‘I'll get you home. I was ill, saw brown shapes and faces looked down at me, a door opened, it was raining, a car in the road, movement, I woke up a little. Another voice said ‘Dick?' Dick said, ‘What?' It did not surprise me. It had come to this. I could not stand, I was put on the ground; it was cold.

‘Is that Billy?'

‘Yes.'

‘Is he all right?'

‘I think so.'

‘What happened.'

‘Jackson's cider.'

‘Tell him; I didn't mean what I said.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Just tell him, please?'

‘Billy!' I got shook. I couldn't move. I was crying. I had not realized I could cry so much. My tears mingled with the rain and ran into the corners of my mouth, I felt my body heave to take a breath, I turned my face away.

‘Billy! She says she didn't mean it.'

‘Dick?'

‘What?'

‘Tell him I did love him, do love him, really. I really didn't mean it the other way.'

‘Billy! She says she loved you …'

‘Loves you.'

‘Loves you. She didn't mean it.'

‘Billy?' I heard her say, ‘I've got to go now.' I tucked my knees into my chest, reached for the edge of my coat and pulled it over them. I felt a bug crawl up my sleeve. It would not be warm there.

‘She says she's going.'

‘Dick? Tell him what I said. You won't forget.'

‘No.'

‘And look after him for me.'

‘Look after him?'

‘Yes. He's fragile.'

‘Fragile?'

‘Yes.'

‘He's not.'

‘Billy?' she said to me. She crouched down so I could feel her breath on my cheek. It was warm and scented air, coming from her body, where my seed had withered and died.

‘Goodbye Billy.'