Free The Watchers on the Shore by Stan Barstow Page A

the shop, would they?'
    .'We usually promote from inside the organization.'
    'And I'd either be working under somebody here or moved to another shop.'
    'There's plenty of chance of promotion.'
    I shake my head. 'No. I had a special relationship with Mr Van Huyten. It's the only reason I came.'
    He seems to have taken a bit of a shine to me, I don't know why. 'Well think about it. You're the kind of man we want. I don't think you'd be just a shop assistant for long.'
    For a second I'm tempted. No upheaval, no moving away, no adapting myself to the drawing board again. And it would suit Ingrid.
    'No, sorry. All my plans are made.'
    'A pity.'He looks at his watch. 'I make it lunchtime. Where do you usually eat?'
    'I have a sandwich round the corner.'
    'Is there a place where they serve lunch?'
    'There's the Dolphin in Bread Street. That's not bad.'
    'Perhaps you'd like to join me. I think the expenses will run to it.'
    'Okay, thanks very much.'
    We get our coats and go out. It's market day and the streets are very busy. We have to wait for a table so we have a pint in the bar before going into the dining-room. I've only ever been in there once before and I look round and locate the table where I sat with Ingrid's father, and remember bits of the conversation ...

    - I get the impression that you feel badly done to and have for some time. As though marriage itself was something that had been imposed on you.
    - I've had a bellyful of being married.
    - So now you're going to chuck it and get out.
- I haven't said that.
    - I thought you had.
    - I said I could if I wanted to. I said I wasn't going to wait around for any favours and I wasn't going to be pushed into doing any thing I didn't want to do. You can tell Ingrid that from me, and her mother an'all ... She doesn't like me, y'know.
    - I know she doesn't. But Ida, and I don't shy away from the idea of you as a son-in-law.
    - Thank you very much.

    Thanks for everything ...

'Do you use this place much?'Harrap asks me.
    'No, I haven't been in for a year or two now.'
    On the way back we pass the pillar box at the corner of Bread Street and Market Street. I walk by, fingering the two envelopes in my pocket. Then I say wait a minute to Harrap and turn back and slip the letters in. One's to Franklyn, saying I'll take the job, and the other's to Conroy, telling him the same thing and asking him to look out for digs for me. Putting my hand up to the slot, holding the envelopes poised for a second, then letting them drop seals the decision. That's it.

    Ingrid sees me off at the station, something I hadn't thought of. The little ceremony of her riding down on the bus and buying a platform ticket so's she can wait with me till the train comes in makes me feel like a leave-end soldier going away for half a year, when the fact is I plan to be home for the week-end in a fortnight's time.
    'You're sure you've got everything?'
    I look at the big suitcase I borrowed from the Old Man. The handle's bitten into my fingers and the flesh is red and puffy. From the weight of it you'd think the only thing I hadn't brought was the furniture.
    'I'll drop you a line if there's anything I want.'
    'You'll write to me anyway, won't you?'
    'In a day or two, when I know how it's going.'
    'What will you do about your washing?'
    'Send it to the laundry.'
    'You could bring it home and let me do it for you.'
    'I don't see much point in lugging things backwards and forwards every other week-end. When it gets down there it might as well stay.'
    Stay. For good. The visits, the temporary things, will be back here. Has she grasped it yet? Has it sunk in?
    Oh yes, she's got it all right. She's saying good-bye on a deeper level than I am. There's more for her in this than see you in a fortnight. It's the end of something and the beginning of something else that might never be any good. And she's scared to death of it. And holding it in, standing there, moving her feet in the cold, her gloved hands together. She always