A Man of his Time. Alan Sillitoe

she really thought. None of it mattered. You only knew what was in someone’s mind by the words that came from their mouths, and had to be satisfied with that, believing it if you cared to. ‘When the child’s grown up will you tell him how he came to be born?’

      ‘That will be for me to decide, if the Lord spares me to live that long. Nobody knows the future. When I found out I was going to have a baby I was in despair, but now I’m glad.’

      Her stiffening tone made him indifferent to what she would do. All that mattered with women was that you didn’t catch the pox, and that they didn’t get it from you. If they became pregnant it was their lookout, though if that happened to Mary Ann he would marry her and no mistake. You couldn’t do any such thing to a girl who lived across the street, and she was too closely looked after by Mrs Lewin – who seemed to know all the tricks – and he was glad she was, because when he got home, all dressed up and gold jingling in his pockets, he would go into the White Hart and ask her to marry him, before he got into any more scrapes.

      ‘I shall never forget you,’ she said, which he liked to hear.

      ‘And I’ll remember you for the rest of my life. When I look over the wall of the parson’s house in a couple of months, perhaps you’ll give me a glance at the child before I go back to Nottingham.’

      ‘It’s your right,’ she said. ‘I don’t think my brother-in-law will disagree.’

      ‘I must be going.’ Sleet blew against his cap. ‘You’d better put your umbrella up. I don’t want you getting your death of cold.’

      The picture card was of Nottingham Castle. ‘Must be from a woman,’ George said, before Ernest could snatch it away. ‘I can almost smell the perfume.’

      He wondered who had sent it. His parents had no cause to write. They’d have to get someone to do it for them. Leah the shunter’s wife had no call on him, either. She might be able to write but didn’t know where he was. Hard to think who it could be, people had no right to pester him, till the thought shot to mind that it could only be from Mary Ann.

      Outside the post office George read his letter from Sarah. ‘She wants me to come home.’

      ‘Shall you go?’

      ‘I’ve been thinking about packing it in down here.’

      ‘It’ll be soon enough for me.’ He wants to see Sarah, Ernest assumed, and give her another child, providing she was still up to it. He put the postcard into his pocket, went on with his walk and forgot about it sufficiently to stop George’s curiosity by saying: ‘I’ve got my life. You’ve got yours. They’re nothing to do with each other.’

      He bought a quart of ale, and before going in for supper went to see Owen-the-Bible, whom he had grown to respect if not like. Two months ago Owen had written a ha’penny postcard to Mary Ann showing a Welsh woman in a tall hat, the briefest of missives but in the finest Board School copperplate which Ernest hoped she would think was his.

      Owen sat at the table, a plate of bread and cheese and half an onion before him. ‘Now here’s the tall stranger again. You must be wanting something of me.’

      Ernest set the bottle by his knife. ‘Drink some of this first.’

      Talk cost breath, due to work in the mine which did nobody any good. ‘Is it poison?’

      ‘No. It would cost more than ale. But you need a brew like this for the dry stuff you’re eating.’

      Upending the spout, Owen downed a third, and Ernest showed the postcard. ‘Read me this,’ ready to use a fist should he damage it. ‘All right, take another drop, then read it.’

      Owen drank to make his breathing easier. He looked at the picture and turned it over. ‘Do you know that when I go to sleep I don’t close my eyes.’

      ‘How do you know, if you’re asleep?’

      He finished the beer before replying. ‘The others tell me. I sleep as deep as any man, but my eyes stay wide open. All night. What do you think of that, then?’

      ‘Very rum,’ Ernest conceded. ‘Now read that card.’

      Owen’s knife shivered into the table, and stayed upright. ‘It’s excellent Welsh bitter you’ve brought me.’

      ‘Make as it’s your birthday.’

      ‘I don’t know when that is. My mother never told me, though I did ask her often enough. But I’m feeling happy from your drink, so this is what the card says. The handwriting is small, but very clear: “Thank you for your postcard. I’m glad you are getting on all right. I am, as well. People ask about you, and now I can tell them. We wonder when you are coming back. A lot of people would like to see you. Mary Ann.” She’s even put the commas right.’

      Ernest told himself how pleasing he found Owen’s singsong voice, and knew that in many ways he would regret leaving an area whose people had been so honest and straight.

      Minnie passed a cloth package. ‘It’s food for your journey. My sister and I put it together.’

      Taking the bundle, he leaned over the wall to see the baby; felt as if leaving home again. ‘He looks healthy,’ noting that the closed eyes gave a stern expression, the features more his than Minnie’s. ‘Pretty, too. What did you christen him?’

      ‘David Ernest. Does that make you satisfied?’

      ‘It’ll have to.’ Minute fingers uncurled from the swaddling, reached for him, eyes open to look. ‘What a blue-eyed beauty. He smiled at me.’

      ‘He has a human soul,’ she said, ‘and a fine name from the Bible. My brother-in-law says he will sing the psalms of King David.’

      The pang of wanting to stay with him forever came and went. ‘He’s a marvel.’

      ‘I’m happy. My life changed after meeting you.’

      He was glad for her, though couldn’t say the same for himself. To see a child of his own was miraculous enough, but happiness was for those who didn’t know themselves, and who would be one of them?

      A tear came onto her cheek, and he passed a white handkerchief freshly laundered by Mrs Jones. When she had wiped it away, and other tears threatened, he told her to keep it, all he had for her to remember him by. She tucked it into the baby’s clothes. ‘I have everything I want. I’m settled and content. My sister and brother-in-law adore him.’

      David’s fingers curled strongly around one of his. ‘I’m sorry to go. And I shall always love you.’

      ‘We mustn’t linger. People will comment. So go now.’

      ‘I shan’t forget you both. When I come back I’ll see you and the baby again.’

      ‘You won’t come back.’ Then she was gone, and he went with a heaviness he didn’t know how to understand, but was more than glad to feel.

      ‘More pints go into your trap,’ George said, after they had changed trains in Worcester, ‘than words come out. Something in Wales must have struck you dumber than usual. I can’t get a word out of you.’

      ‘Nor will you.’ George was wrong if he thought anything was worrying him. On the other hand he was right, because the vision of Minnie and David stayed in his mind. Even thinking of Mary Ann wouldn’t drive it away, though the more he thought of her the more vivid her face became, and the more he knew he would have to marry her, settle down and have a family, no woman more suitable, unless somebody had made off with her during his time in Wales.

      ‘You ought to have been a deaf mute instead of a blacksmith.’ George arranged his tranklements for the third time on the rack. ‘I can just see you with a coffin on your back.’

      Ernest took out his clasp knife. ‘You can kiss my backside. Just shut up.’ Opening the cloth bag Minnie had given him, he found a compact meat and potatoe pie, a lump of cheese, an onion, and a loaf of