Coming up for Air-第18章
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d thoughts of making him into an auctioneer。 both were pletely hopeless because joe； at seventeen； wrote a hand like a ploughboy and couldn’t repeat the multiplication table。 at present he was supposed to be ‘learning the trade’ at a big bicycle shop on the outskirts of walton。 tinkering with bicycles suited joe； who； like most half…wits； had a slight mechanical turn； but he was quite incapable of working steadily and spent all his time loafing about in greasy overalls； smoking woodbines； getting into fights； drinking （he’s started that already）； getting ‘talked of’ with one girl after another； and sticking father for money。 father was worried； puzzled； and vaguely resentful。 i can see him yet； with the meal on his bald head； and the bit of grey hair over his ears； and his spectacles and his grey moustache。 he couldn’t understand what was happening to him。 for years his profits had gone up； slowly and steadily； ten pounds this year； twenty pounds that year； and now suddenly they’d gone down with a bump。 he couldn’t understand it。 he’d inherited the business from his father； he’d done an honest trade； worked hard； sold sound goods； swindled nobody—and his profits were going down。 he said a number of times； between sucking at his teeth to get the crumb out； that times were very bad； trade seemed very slack； he couldn’t think what had e over people； it wasn’t as if the horses didn’t have to eat。 perhaps it was these here motors； he decided finally。 ‘nasty smelly things！’ mother put in。 she was a little worried； and knew that she ought to be more so。 once or twice while father was talking there was a far…away look in her eyes and i could see her lips moving。 she was trying to decide whether it should be a round of beef and carrots tomorrow or another leg of mutton。 except when there was something in her own line that needed foresight； such as buying linen or saucepans； she wasn’t really capable of thinking beyond tomorrow’s meals。 the shop was giving trouble and father was worried—that was about as far as she saw into it。 none of us had any grasp of what was happening。 father had had a bad year and lost money； but was he really frightened by the future？ i don’t think so。 this was 1909； remember。 he didn’t know what was happening to him； he wasn’t capable of foreseeing that these sarazin people would systematically under…sell him； ruin him； and eat him up。 how could he？ things hadn’t happened like that when he was a young man。 all he knew was that times were bad； trade was very ‘slack’； very ‘slow’ （he kept repeating these phrases）； but probably things would ‘look up presently’。
it would be nice if i could tell you that i was a great help to my father in his time of trouble； suddenly proved myself a man； and developed qualities which no one had suspected in me—and so on and so forth； like the stuff you used to read in the uplift novels of thirty years ago。 or alternatively i’d like to be able to record that i bitterly resented having to leave school； my eager young mind； yearning for knowledge and refinement； recoiled from the soulless mechanical job into which they were thrusting me—and so on and so forth； like the stuff you read in the uplift novels today。 both would be plete bunkum。 the truth is that i was pleased and excited at the idea of going to work； especially when i grasped that old grimmett was going to pay me real wages； twelve shillings a week； of which i could keep four for myself。 the big carp at binfield house； which had filled my mind for three days past； faded right out of it。 i’d no objection to leaving school a few terms early。 it generally happened the same way with boys at our school。 a boy was always ‘going to’ go to reading university； or study to be an engineer； or ‘go into business’ in london； or run away to sea—and then suddenly； at two days’ notice； he’d disappear from school； and a fortnight later you’d meet him on a bicycle； delivering vegetables。 within five minutes of father telling me that i should have to leave school i was wondering about the new suit i should wear to go to work in。 i instantly started demanding a ‘grown…up suit’； with a kind of coat that was fashionable at that time； a ‘cutaway’； i think it was called。 of course both mother and father were scandalized and said they’d ‘never heard of such a thing’。 for some reason that i’ve never fully fathomed； parents in those days always tried to prevent their children wearing grown…up clothes as long as possible。 in every family there was a stand…up fight before a boy had his first tall collars or a girl put her hair up。
so the conversation veered away from father’s business troubles and degenerated into a long； nagging kind of argument； with father gradually getting angry and repeating over and over—dropping an aitch now and again； as he was apt to do when he got angry—‘well； you can’t ‘ave it。 make up your mind to that—you can’t ‘ave it。’ so i didn’t have my ‘cutaway’； but went to work for the first time in a ready…made black suit and a broad collar in which i looked an overgrown lout。 any distress i felt over the whole business really arose from that。 joe was even more selfish about it。 he was furious at having to leave the bicycle shop； and for the short time that he remained at home he merely loafed about； made a nuisance of himself and was no help to father whatever。
i worked in old grimmett’s shop for nearly six years。 grimmett was a fine； upstanding； white…whiskered old chap； like a rather stouter version of uncle ezekiel； and like uncle ezekiel a good liberal。 but he was less of a firebrand and more respected in the town。 he’d trimmed his sails during the boer war； he was a bitter enemy of trade unions and once sacked an assistant for possessing a photograph of keir hardie； and he was ‘chapel’—in fact he was a big noise； literally； in the baptist chapel； known locally as the tin tab—whereas my family were ‘church’ and uncle ezekiel was an infidel at that。 old grimmett was a town councillor and an official at the local liberal party。 with his white whiskers； his canting talk about liberty of conscience and the grand old man； his thumping bank balance； and the extempore prayers you could sometimes hear him letting loose when you passed the tin tab； he was a little like a legendary nonconformist grocer in the story— you’ve heard it； i expect：
‘james！’
‘yessir？’
‘have you sanded the sugar？’
‘yessir！’
‘have you watered the treacle？’
‘yessir！’
‘then e up to prayers。’
god knows how often i heard that story whispered in the shop。 we did actually start the day with a prayer before we put up the shutters。 not that old grimmett sanded the sugar。 he knew that that doesn’t pay。 but he was a sharp man in business； he did all the high…class grocery trade of lower binfield and the country round； and he had three assistants in the shop besides the errand boy； the van…man； and his own daughter （he was a widower） who acted as cashier。 i was the errand boy for my first six months。 then one of the assistants left to ‘set up’ in reading and i moved into the shop and wore my first white apron。 i learned to tie a parcel； pack a bag of currants； grind coffee； work the bacon…slicer； carve ham； put an edge on a knife； sweep the floor； dust eggs without breaking them； pass off an inferior article as a good one； clean a window； judge a pound of cheese by eye； open a packing…case； whack a slab of butter into shape； and—what was a good deal the hardest— remember where the stock was kept。 i haven’t such detailed memories of grocering as i have of fishing； but i remember a good deal。 to this day i know the trick of snapping a bit of string in my fingers。 if you put me in front of a bacon…slicer i could work it better than i can a typewriter。 i could spin you some pretty fair technicalities about grades of china tea and what margarine is made of and the average weight of eggs and the price of paper bags per thousand。
well； for more than five years that was me—an alert young chap with a round； pink； snubby kind of face and butter…coloured hair （no longer cut short but carefully greased and slicked back in what people used to call a ‘smarm’）； hustling about behind the counter in a white apron with a pencil behind my ear； tying up bags of coffee like lightning and jockeying the customer along with ‘yes； ma’am！ certainly； ma’am！ and the next order； ma’am！’ in a voice with just a trace of a cockney accent。 old grimmett worked us pretty hard； it was an eleven…hour day except on thursdays and sundays； and christmas week was a nightmare。 yet it’s a good time to look back on。 don’t think that i had no ambitions。 i knew i wasn’t going to remain a grocer’s assistant for ever； i was merely ‘learning the trade’。 some time； somehow or other； there’d be enough money for me to ‘set up’ on my own。 that was how people felt in those days。 this was before the war； remember； and before the slumps and before the dole。 the world was big enough for everyone。 anyone could ‘set up in trade’； there was always room for another shop。 and time was slipping on。 1909； 1910； 1911。 king edward died and the papers came out with a black border round the edge。 two cinema
