Alan Sillitoe - Birthday

‘I suppose she will.’ It was another reason for being here, apart from seeing his brothers, and trawling what places of his youth were still upstanding. They mostly weren’t, many Stalingrads having come and gone on the old stomping grounds, though he’d never stopped regarding his home town with affection, whatever happened to it, hadn’t left with alacrity at eighteen out of dislike for the place as because he wanted to see more of the world. No matter how changed, it was an area in which he had no need of maps. Everything was in the past, but an event could leap to mind with such intensity it might have happened in the last five minutes.

Whatever his age, he contrived not to take in the reality of the staring face during his morning shave, and joking in a pub with his brothers about living forever was a fair reason for drinking to the prospect, while aware that death’s blackout could descend any minute. Lucky the man to whom it came quickly, though going to Jenny’s seventieth birthday party kept such thoughts at bay.

‘It’s a good job me and Derek will be with you,’ Arthur said. ‘We can’t have you getting her in the pod again.’

Such jibes called for the expected Seaton laugh, because Jenny Tuxford, after a lifetime of misery endured with unimaginable saintliness, had been freed at last from an anguish which must have seemed eternal while it was going on. She was his first love, never forgotten, so he had been invited to the party. ‘I never did get her pregnant. Some other swine had to do that.’

They had gone at it every weekend on the settee in her parents’ house like rabbits in a thunderstorm or, to use another local phrase, had many helpings of hearthrug pie in front of the fire. Her father, a miner at Cinderhill, got a good allowance of coal to heat the council house, as if such juvenile passion needed it.

He had never seen her with no clothes on, nor had she witnessed him ‘bare’ – as they would have put it. In those days a man’s shirt wouldn’t come off except over the head, and he might have to pull it back on at the click of a gate latch. It was bad enough undoing braces to get your trousers down, though there was never a man smarter at yanking them up.

Jenny was armoured in roll-on, heavy duty brassiere, lisle stockings and suspenders, though the advance guard of his fingers always closed on the vital spot, which led to the soaking of camiknickers in love juice (the embarrassing term came back to him) until he learned enough from a mate in the factory to call at the chemist’s once a week and provide himself with an adequate supply of french letters. No lack of sex education for him, and with such memories who needed pornography?

Arthur broke in: ‘A woman can have a baby at whatever age she likes, or so I read in the paper. Maybe Jenny will make you use a contraceptive this time, and put your spunk in her deep freeze. She’ll have the kid in five years’ time, and let one of her great granddaughters bring it up. It’s hard to say, with a deep one like her. But if she does have a kid you’ll just have to keep sweating your bollocks off writing them television scripts to pay the maintenance. She might even have quads.’

‘You are a devil,’ Avril laughed, ‘talking like that about a respectable woman.’

‘You never know how respectable anyone is,’ Arthur said, ‘till they’re dead.’ He crossed the dual carriageway going left to the city centre and right to the M1, over on the free lights to go through the estate of Broxtowe.

A tranquil evening, the blaze of late sun caught the roofs as if to set them on fire. Nearly every council dwelling had its car, sometimes a caravan for whoever hadn’t been able to get far enough from Basford Crossing but liked a look at the Lincolnshire coast now and again. And if they were too dead-alive to go that far a satellite dish pulled in four hundred channels of boring television.

‘This is an area of high crime and vandalism,’ Arthur said. ‘In the old days the houses were a lot closer together, so people policed themselves. They had to, if they wanted to live in peace. Anybody thieving or making trouble would get 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.