Free The Broken Chariot by Alan Sillitoe Page A

his lips into a smile, and gave him the hundred-year look – as if he had been to the same Understatement College, and considered it a disgrace not to hold himself upright no matter how much booze he had guzzled.
    There were moments when Herbert felt that he had always been a workman. Or was he imagining it only in the face of overwhelming reality? It was certainly a soft and easy life compared to his previous existence. A workman lived without heartache as long as his wage packet came comfortably padded on Friday afternoon. Mr Thomas the history teacher used to maunder on about their sufferings, saying how much better it would be if nobody had to slave in ‘dark satanic mills’ and live in dismal slums that threatened to strangle the beauties of England with their brick and mortar tentacles. But Herbert liked the glow of homeliness in the streets, the beer-smelling fagstink of friendly pubs, and the mateyness of the blokes at work. He was captivated by the logic of machinery, of how its many parts worked, fascinated by the certainty of construction and the usefulness of its application. By the end of the working day his dream state was dominated by cog wheels, ratchets and pulleys, which reminded him of his mother talking engine terms with his father when the car used to conk out in India.
    His expertise at mechanics was widened when Sarah, a large-bosomed blonde who operated a milling machine, turned pale one morning and, overcome by dizziness, was advised by the toolsetter to go home.
    â€˜Must ’ave bin the flu,’ Herbert said at tea break.
    â€˜I’ll bet it’s her monthlies,’ was Archie’s opinion. ‘Not that it’d put me off. I’d swim through her lovely blood any day.’
    Herbert felt disgust at this vivid picture, though was called on to laugh: ‘Ah, I would, as well.’
    He was shown how to operate Rachel’s machine, and then told to get on with it. It was necessary to stand back and rehearse the motions, having memorized a cinematic picture of his cursory lesson. The first dozen were slow to make, but throughout the afternoon he built up speed, and turned out so many aluminium elbows in the next few days that when Rachel came back her absence on the production line hadn’t been missed. ‘If you stay here much longer,’ the chargehand said, ‘you’ll be doing my job as well.’
    Bert knew when he was being flattered. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be joining up soon.’
    â€˜Thank God for that,’ he laughed, walking away.
    Mrs Denman came into his room with a starched and ironed shirt in one hand, and clean underwear in the other. She slotted it neatly into a carrier bag with his folded suit, and stood by the door as if he might forget to take it to the public baths. He was trying to get the grime out of his fingernails. The other lodgers called her ‘Ma’, so why not him? ‘Thanks, Ma.’
    She stood by the door. ‘I expect you’ll be going out tonight?’
    On Saturday afternoons he went to the baths and hoped he came back looking different. For a few pennies everybody who needed to could get clean. ‘Ye’, I’ve got a date.’
    â€˜I expected as much.’
    He didn’t know what she was waiting for. ‘By the lions, at the Council House.’
    â€˜You’re a nice lad, Bert.’
    He smiled. Never been called that before. He liked it, from her. ‘Don’t you reckon Archie is, as well?’
    She held his hand, but let it go in a moment. ‘He was made brick by brick, though, and you just grew tall on your own.’
    She was in a strange mood. ‘Is Frank calling tonight?’
    He wondered what he’d said wrong when she answered: ‘What’s that got to do with it?’
    â€˜I just asked.’
    â€˜We might go to’t Town Arms for an hour or two.’ It was the top of the list for her, as far as pubs went, but he wouldn’t