Alligator Playground. Alan Sillitoe
more than twice, but liked to choose their gifts, once sending a box of chocolates so big they joked about roping it to the luggage rack.
On the Great North Road she always stopped for lunch at The George in Stamford. She liked the old fashioned place, because Tom once booked them a room on their way to the Edinburgh Festival. She sat in the lounge afterwards for coffee. Feeling herself to be a woman of mystery and elegance, she surprised herself when, seeing a man come in who she fancied, she wondered whether she would go away with him for the weekend if he asked.
‘Fell off the back of a lorry, did they?’ her father said, seeing the gifts. ‘I hope the police won’t be round in the morning. We don’t want to upset your mother, do we? Do we, Janice?’ he bawled.
‘Don’t be daft,’ her mother said. ‘We should be glad we’ve got such a nice son-in-law.’
Her father grumbled, no gracious corpuscles in his blood. ‘I like to look life in the eye.’ The first time he met Tom he said to Angela on the QT that such a man would end up either as a millionaire or in prison. A real judge of character, but that was his way, and she could never stand being at home for more than seventytwo hours.
The first day was tolerable because she took from her parents all that had been useful in her early life. Not much, but it served, though she was irritated at feeling sentimental about it. People gawped as she walked around the village, wondering what she was up to in the call box by the main road trying to get through to Tom. She strode to the stone-walled fields, and remembered running across them as a kid. Now she wore trousers, and laughed at the fact that she was too tall to graze her crotch anymore.
On the second day in the terraced house the silence was even thicker than the walls she had clambered over, and an effort was needed to stand up and go outside. But after the midday dinner of overcooked lamb, potatoes and cabbage, her father took his jacket from the back of the door and said: ‘Come on, Angie, let’s walk down the road to the pit. The men have been laid off, and the women have set up a protest camp outside gates. You’ll need a scarf and hat, though.’
Maintenance men kept the mine humming so that seams wouldn’t collapse or water pour in. Pits were closing all over the coalfield, he said, but the miners wanted jobs not redundancy money. ‘The government’s playing arsy-versy one minute, and changing its tactics the next, just to unnerve everybody. They treat people like bloody schoolkids.’
Three women were warming themselves at a coalfired brazier, all dressed in various styles of anoraks, rainbow scarves and woolly hats. One young woman sat on a plank between two barrels, helping a young boy to drink out of a titty-bottle filled with warm tea.
An elderly grey-haired woman in a duffel coat, tall and thin, came out of the headquarters caravan. ‘Up from London, are yer?’ she said, when Fred had introduced Angela. ‘My name’s Enid. You don’t talk like us anymore.’
‘I can’t help that, can I?’ The woman had spoken with humour perhaps, but Angela had never liked that kind because whoever used it only wanted to put one over on you. She regretted her sharp tone, and even having opened her mouth.
‘Well, here we are,’ Enid went on, ‘doing the only thing we can to mek the buggers see sense. I’m not sure how far we’ll get, though. They’re doing their best to shift us. Last week they set the bulldozers on us, but the drivers refused to do it, bless ’em. The media and TV was here, and the powers that be didn’t like that, so they ’ad to call ’em off.’
A young woman came out of the caravan with mugs of coffee and gave one to Angela. ‘We was at school together, don’t you remember?’ The wind blew the flaps of her headscarf this way and that. ‘We was in Miss Griffin’s class.’
She said yes, now I do, and knew she would have been here as well if she had stayed and married a man whose only hope of work was down the pit – being bossed about by this woman who had set herself up as their leader.
‘The men are used to the work, and get good money,’ Enid said. ‘It’s the only job they can do, and there’s no other. If many more pits close it’ll be a disaster. Even now, all these villages are dying, and the crime rate’s soared. At one time you could go out without locking your door. We used to police the place ourselves, you might say, but nowadays the young lads break in and tek everything. It goes on all the time.’
‘Enid’s one o’ the best,’ her father whispered. ‘None better. The salt o’ the earth.’ Such phrases suggested matiness, and bigotry, yet she listened, asking the right questions, with words and gestures natural to her. Still feeling a fraud, yet knowing they had more of a case than anybody else, she signed the petition, and gave a tenner for the fighting fund.
Enid told her father he had a lovely daughter, and there were tears of pride in his eyes. He held her hand affectionately by the back door, but let it fall as they went in, for fear her mother would see.
On the third day she said she had to go home and look after Tom, and was as happy to get away as the first time, unable to smile till reaching Doncaster and heading south. To have stayed longer might have turned her back into someone she had always had a horror of being, only feeling what she assumed to be her real self when a tea tray was brought to her table at the hotel in Stamford.
Tom was away in Frankfurt again – or was it Bologna – conferring with publishers about translations, reprints and bestsellers. He was all over the place these days, but would shine in tomorrow, merry and bright before burying himself back in the office.
The melancholy notes of Elgar stopped, and Tom’s voice vibrated at her ribs, as if he had been dead a year and was talking from the other side of heaven or hell, if there were such places, which she wouldn’t believe till she had been there and seen for herself. His tone was low-pitched, and eerily confidential in case someone who shouldn’t be was pressing an ear to the other side of the door.
‘Diana? Tom. It’ll be marvellous. Can’t bear to wait. I know. Have to, won’t I? We both will.’ He gave a sneaky laugh, new to Angela. ‘It’ll be worth it, I know.’
She sat in an armchair, and his voice was clearer. Her flesh felt as if coated with ice. Last night she had been to see a play at Notting Hill Gate. He had come in before her, and complained of exhaustion when she got into bed with nothing on and laid lovingly by him.
‘No, I won’t pick you up. Get a taxi, or a minicab, if you like. All right, a proper black cab. Safer these days. I’ll see you at the check-in. Oh, don’t worry, I’ll be there. Who? Norman Bakewell? How did his interview go? Yes, he’s always very good. I’ve never known him not to be, providing he’s interviewed by an attractive woman. You saw him afterwards? What did he say? No, he doesn’t know about us. Nobody does. He is a vile old gossip. Angela? Glad to get rid of me, I expect. How do I know what she does? Of course she doesn’t, so don’t get nervous. I must hang up, though. See you at the check-in. You’ve got your ticket and passport?’ Another sneaky laugh. ‘You’d look a right charlie getting there and finding it was out of date. I’ve heard of it happening. Mine? I check it every morning before brushing my teeth. Can’t wait, either, my darling. Love you. Yes, a lot. Love you, then. ’Bye. All right. ’Bye, love.’
No more voice. She knew she should laugh, but her lips wouldn’t untwist. Like an episode from one of Bakewell’s gloating and cynical books. Well, the next chapter would be hers. The heating was on full but her hands and feet were cold. Maybe an unknown voice would come out of the hissing tape with the gen on how to kill herself. Better still if it told her the best way of doing him in without being found out.
She couldn’t think, so neither was likely, head blocked solid till her eyes were sore. At the end of the Elgar she had needed to go into the bathroom and pee, but didn’t want to anymore. When she did she might squat over those lovely bespoke frilly fronted shirts he was fond of poncing around in.
Diana, he had called her. ‘Diana,’ she said aloud, ‘I’ll fucking Diana her. I’ll dish him, as well. I’ll make the bastards spit tacks.’ The only time he had shed tears was once when she asked him to peel some onions before a dinner party.