Saturday Night and Sunday Morning. Alan Sillitoe

his eyes now and again to make sure that the street was still there, to convince himself that he was not in bed, because the hard stone step was as round and as soft as a pillow. He was blissfully happy, for he did not have the uncomfortable feeling of wanting to be sick any more, though at the same time he had retained enough alcohol to stay both high-spirited and sleepy. He made the curious experiment of speaking out loud to see whether or not he could hear his own voice. ‘Couldn’t care less, couldn’t care less, couldn’t care less’ — in answer to questions that came into his mind regarding sleeping with a woman who had a husband and two kids, getting blind drunk on seven gins and umpteen pints, falling down a flight of stairs, and being sick over a man and a woman. Bliss and guilt joined forces in such a way that they caused no trouble but merely sunk his mind into a welcome nonchalance. The next thing he knew was Brenda bending over him and digging her fingers sharply in his ribs.

      ‘Ugh!’ he grunted, noting the yeast and hop-like smell of her breath. ‘Yer’ve bin boozin’!’

      ‘’Ark at who’s talkin’,’ she said, gesticulating as if she had brought an audience with her. ‘I had two pints and three orange-squashes, and he talks about boozing. I heard all about what happened to you though at the pub, falling downstairs and being sick over people.’

      He stood up, clear-headed and steady. ‘I’m all right now, duck. I’m sorry I couldn’t get back upstairs to you in the pub, but I don’t know what went on.’

      ‘I’ll tell you some day,’ she laughed. ‘But let’s be quiet as we go in, or we’ll wake the kids.’

      Got to be careful, he said to himself. Nosy neighbours’ll tell Jack. He lifted the band of hair from her coat collar and kissed her neck. She turned on him petulantly: ‘Can’t you wait tell we get upstairs?’

      ‘No,’ he admitted, with a mock-gloating laugh.

      ‘Well, you’ve got to wait,’ she said, pushing the door open for him to go in.

      He stood in the parlour while she fastened the locks and bolts, smelling faint odours of rubber and oil coming from Jack’s bicycle leaning against a big dresser that took up nearly one whole side of the room. It was a small dark area of isolation, long familiar with another man’s collection of worldly goods: old-fashioned chairs and a settee, fireplace, clock ticking on the mantelpiece, a smell of brown paper, soil from a plant-pot, ordinary aged dust, soot in the chimney left over from last winter’s fires, and mustiness of rugs laid down under the table and by the fireplace. Brenda had known this room for seven married years, yet could not have become more intimate with it than did Arthur in the ten seconds while she fumbled with the key.

      He knocked his leg on the bicycle pedal, swearing at the pain, complaining at Jack’s barminess for leaving it in such an exposed position. ‘How does he think I’m going to get in with that thing stuck there?’ he joked. ‘Tell him I said to leave it in the backyard next week, out of ‘arm’s way.’

      Brenda hissed and told him to be quiet, and they crept like two thieves into the living-room, where the electric light showed the supper things — teacups, plates, jam-pot, bread — still on the table. A howl of cats came from a nearby yard, and a dustbin lid clattered on to cobblestones.

      ‘Oh well,’ he said in a normal voice, standing up tall and straight, ‘it’s no use whisperin’ when all that racket’s going on.’

      They stood between the table and firegrate, and Brenda put her arms around him. While kissing her he turned his head so that his own face stared back at him from an oval mirror above the shelf. His eyes grew large in looking at himself from such an angle, noticing his short disordered hair sticking out like the bristles of a blond porcupine, and the mark of an old pimple healing on his cheek.

      ‘Don’t let’s stay down here long, Arthur,’ she said softly.

      He released her and, knowing every corner of the house and acting as if it belonged to him, stripped off his coat and shirt and went into the scullery to wash the tiredness from his eyes. Once in bed, they would not go to sleep at once: he wanted to be fresh for an hour before floating endlessly down into the warm bed beside Brenda’s soft body.

      It was ten o’clock, and she was still asleep. The sun came through the window, carrying street-noises on its beams, a Sunday morning clash of bottles from milkmen on their rounds, newspaper boys shouting to each other as they clattered along the pavement and pushed folded newspapers into letter-boxes, each bearing crossword puzzles, sports news and forecasts, and interesting scandal that would be struggled through with a curious and salacious indolence over plates of bacon and tomatoes and mugs of strong sweet tea.

      He turned to Brenda heaped beside him, sitting up to look at her. She was breathing gently; her hair straggled untidily over the pillow, her breasts bulged out over her slip, a thick smooth arm over them as if she were trying to protect herself from something that had frightened her in a dream. He heard the two children playing in their bedroom across the landing. One was saying: ‘It’s my Teddy-bear, our Jacky. Gi’ it me or else Is’ll tell our mam.’ Then a low threat from the boy who would not hand back his plunder.

      He sank down contentedly into bed. ‘Brenda,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Come on, duck, waken up.’

      She turned and pressed her face into his groin.

      ‘Nice,’ he muttered.

      ‘What’s time?’ she mumbled, her breath hot against his skin.

      ‘Half-past eleven,’ he lied.

      She sprang up, showing the crease-marks of crumpled sheets down one side of her face, her brown eyes wide open. ‘You’re having me on again,’ she cried. ‘Of all the liars, you’re the biggest I’ve ever known.’

      ‘I allus was a liar,’ he said, laughing at his joke. ‘A good ‘un an’ all.’

      ‘Liars don’t prosper,’ she retorted.

      ‘It’s on’y ten o’clock,’ he admitted, lifting her hair and rolling it into a ball on top of her head.

      ‘What a time we had last night,’ she grinned, suddenly remembering.

      It came back to him now. He had put away more swill than Loudmouth, had fallen down some stairs, had been sick over a man and a woman. He laughed. ‘It seems years.’ He took her by the shoulders and kissed her lips, then her neck and breasts, pressing his leg against her. ‘You’re lovely, Brenda. Let’s get down in bed.’

      ‘Mam,’ a small plaintive voice cried.

      She pushed Arthur away. ‘Go back to bed, Jacky.’

      ‘It’s late,’ he crooned tearfully through the door. ‘I want some tea, our mam.’

      ‘Go back.’

      They heard the shuffling of a small foot behind the door. ‘I want to see Uncle Arthur,’ Jacky pleaded.

      ‘Little bogger,’ Arthur muttered, resigning himself to the disturbance. ‘I can’t have a bit o’ peace on a Sunday morning.’

      Brenda sat higher in the bed and straightened her slip. ‘Leave him alone,’ she said.

      Jacky was insistent. He kicked the bottom of the door.

      ‘Can I come in, Uncle Arthur?’

      ‘You little bogger.’

      He laughed, knowing now that it was all right.

      ‘Go down to the parlour,’ Arthur said, ‘and get the News of the World that’s just bin pushed in the letter-box. Then I’ll let yer come.’

      His bare feet went thudding softly on the wooden stairs. They heard him hurrying through the parlour below, then running back and climbing the stairs with breathless haste. They drew apart as he burst in and threw the paper on the bed, jumping up and crushing it between his stomach and Arthur’s legs. Arthur pulled it free and held him high in the air with one hand, until he began to gag and choke with laughter and Brenda said he was to