The moon was falling over the bare top of a hill, and light fingers of cloud were stretching wakefully across the sky. A grey light was beginning to spread from the east, and from the earth a thin steam was rising and dying as it rose. Mists began to gather and the sky turned slowly orange. Here and there a bird sang in surprise at finding itself alive on such a morning, after the storm.
The morning! In the morning he would start to discover the purpose of existence. It was not here, in this dingy room. It was not inside himself. It was not to be found through the rarefied isolation of artistic creation, even if what he had produced had been art. He realised that now. It was out there on the sides of the hills, where people lived, and in the factories, where they worked. He must work, feel himself useful, and embark upon a voyage of discovery. In the morning he would find himself a job. In the morning he would thrill to the vibrant excitement of human activity. In the morning he would become a new man, Fletcher.
Meanwhile he closed the curtain and went back to bed, and fell, like Mrs Pollard, into a kind of sleep.
Chapter 6
FLETCHER EMERGED THREE HOURS LATER IN A MANNER that astounded Mrs Pollard. His face, taking cheerfulness almost to the point of no return, carried all before it in a manner that she had not seen from him before. In her embarrassment she assumed that he would mention the events of the previous evening, but he made no reference to them. Rather he announced his intention of taking a short walk before breakfast. This could have knocked Mrs Pollard over with a feather. Judge then of her shock when she saw him leap down the steps in one bound and set off in the general direction of the Midland Station at a pronounced trot, rubbing his hands eagerly together.
She couldn’t understand it, and she didn’t like it. He had never taken a walk at any time, let alone before breakfast, and he had certainly never rubbed his hands together when she was looking. However, there was no time to worry about that. She must make him his breakfast. Stew.
It was not the usual thing for breakfast, but she felt that there would be no peace between them until she had redeemed herself. She decided, having learnt from her mistake, to aim at something simple, and she chose from her larder onions, potatoes, carrots, stewing beef and haricot beans. Onto these she poured a generous proportion of stock. Next she secured to the floor, at a yard’s distance from the casserole, a wooden chair, and she then sat on it. She began to stir the stew. This she did with an enormous spoon. It really was enormous, for a spoon. One would have been excused had one mistaken it for a dredging bucket. This spoon, this great spoon, had once belonged to Builth Evans, of the Merioneth Axe Murders, and had become a valuable family heirloom. Mrs Pollard, who was descended from the Evanses on her grandmother’s side, was extremely proud of the spoon, and had made a will bequeathing it to the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, should it survive her. It was over four feet long and had at its head a curious double joint, characteristic of the best Welsh domestic spoons. The purpose of this joint was to allow the spoon to lie in the vertical while the handle was in the horizontal position, and vice versa. When the handle of the spoon was wiggled, the wiggle communicated itself, via the joint, to the spoon, thus setting up a cross-wiggle. The result was a stir only slightly inferior to that obtainable with any other spoon.
Mrs Pollard believed that by thus employing the spoon she was making it useful, and that it was therefore a boon to her, in that it was of use. Wearisome and clumsy though her efforts were, she firmly believed that she was using a labour-saving device.
Fletcher, in the meantime, was advancing by leaps and bounds, as he grappled with the problems involved in discovering a new city. His nervous excitement led him on a prodigious walk, up and down the hills, through parks, past quaint old pubs and great modern stores, the dreams of master hacks. On all sides stretched streets of square brick houses, appealing or appalling, according to one’s spelling. Eventually, at the end of one of these streets, he came upon a vista. Below him lay the valley and the factories, and on the other side of the valley a belt of derelict open spaces and car parks threaded its way into the centre of the city and petered out among a mass of printing presses, garages and canteen windows. Beyond them, on the right, rose the towers and spires of the principal buildings.
Fletcher stopped walking and leant against the wall, looking out over this new land. The city was given over, in the main, to heavy industry. A hundred years ago, he mused, it had been little more than a collection of villages, each with its own peculiar customs and institutions. Now it housed, he estimated, some half a million souls, several of them taxi-drivers, others lawyers, journalists, smelters and so on, down through the whole gamut of human activity. There was not much here, he judged, to attract the tourist, but there was a thriving air of activity which would no doubt compensate for the lack of historical interest and beauty. The inhabitants, he felt sure, retained the traditions of independence and individuality which their manly life had given their forefathers.
It was to be his domain! In this great city lay his life’s work. He strode on, past the Salvation Dining Rooms, the Midland Station, the Hippodrome Cinema, the Telegraph and Chronicle Building and the Temperance Launderette. He passed the imposing façade of the Neo-Gothic Town Hall, on whose well-kept lawns summer time crowds enjoyed, in son et lumière, the dramatised history of the Chamber of Commerce. He passed the sandstone and soot cathedral and the Northern Productivity Pavilion, and the whole bustle of the early-morning life of the city fired his imagination. He drank in the atmosphere as if he could not have enough of it. It was a beautiful morning. Quite soon it would snow, but at this moment the sun, high above the slate roofs, was shining on the upturned faces of the buses. The city was full of noise. The market was situated on the hill. The politicians were driven in the big, black cars. The pencil was in the pocket of the publican. The tourist was purchasing a tin of luncheon meat. The street trader was displaying many kinds of produce. The townsfolk were travelling to work. See, the merchant has raised his glass and is drinking. Why, the newsvendor is selling those journals with ease.
So the city went about its business, and Fletcher watched. This was the promised land, and it seemed natural that a military ceremony should take place and martial music should sweep him into battle. He was not certain of the purpose of the parade, nor did he know the identity of the elderly lady who stood in the uniform of a field marshal on the dais, but he stood near her and watched the troops march past. Contingent after contingent swept by in perfect step. The sun shone on the green berets of the Third Battalion the Queen’s Own Mexborough Fusiliers and glinted off the campaign medals on the chests of the Old Comrades and the veterans of Ladysmith. There was cheering from the crowds as the military bands played and swept Fletcher towards his duty. There was so much that must be saved. As he marched he saw the world waiting to be saved. Africa, Asia, America, Europe. Mountains, rivers and forests. Rivers running through the forests. Mountains emerging out of the forests. Fletcher running through the forests. Fletcher emerging out of the forests. Fletcher at the summit, on the raised dais. Fletcher, the universal panacea for all mankind.
The bands stopped. The ceremony was over. He must get a job, and he set off down the hill and bought a copy of the Telegraph and Chronicle.
Chapter 7
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