A Man of his Time

He set a coin on the wood and, standing sufficiently apart in the crowded Saturday night taproom, said: ‘Have you seen Florence?’

‘She was serving in the jug-and-bottle. Then she went upstairs, but I expect she’ll be down in a bit.’

Burton let the rest of his ale stand while lighting a cigarette. At work he rolled them, but for the weekend emptied a packet of twenty Virginias into a silver case. ‘Is she all right?’

He was called to take another order. ‘She will be, as soon as she sees you.’

‘She’s not for you, Burton,’ Tom said.

Burton stared. ‘Nobody’s for anybody, unless you take them.’

‘You’ll need a horse to gallop away on if her husband sees you,’ Morgan laughed.

‘You think so?’ Saturday night was a time for ease, but he was annoyed at them putting their noses into what could only be his business. ‘I’ve never been on a horse in my life. I wouldn’t trust one an inch. Nor would I trust a woman, unless I wanted her. Only a fool would risk his neck on a horse, or his life for a woman.’

He noticed her stance at the foot of the stairs, glad she saw only him, and even more so at her approach in response to his faint nod. A tall well-built woman of thirty, she wore a flowery blouse with a lace collar. Her thin lips and the expression, as if for the moment unaware of where she was, made her seem eternally threatened, and too serious for Burton’s liking, until her smile changed to one of expectation, a lightening of the features he had noticed on first seeing her six months ago.

‘I thought you’d be in last night,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it when you don’t come when you say you will. I think something’s happened to you.’

To me?’

‘I know, but I can’t help it.’

‘I worked till ten.’

‘I thought as much. But I waited.’

‘You can’t stop while there’s work. Not in my trade.’

She fiddled with the string of jet beads at her bosom. ‘It’s nearly a week since we were together.’

Their heads close, people drew back to let them talk. ‘Come for a walk tonight.’

‘I’d like to, but I daren’t risk it. I’m not sure when Herbert will be back.’

‘I shouldn’t let that bother you.’

‘I’ve got to be careful, haven’t I?’

She was called to serve another customer, so he turned back to Tom. ‘Did you have anything on the races today?’

‘A couple of bob on Vanity Fair, but I think the bogger must have been wearing hobnailed boots. I could have got to that winning post quicker myself.’

Burton watched Florence at work. ‘If you ride on them they break your neck, and if you bet on them you might as well throw your hard-earned money in the dustbin.’

‘You spend it on ale, though,’ Morgan said, ‘and that only gets swilled into the Trent.’

Burton’s laugh was short and dry. ‘But you enjoy it as it goes through your tripes.’ He emptied his pint, and went closer to the bar, a ripple of agitation on his cheek. ‘Florence!’

She gave change, then came at his call. ‘You’re short with me tonight.’

‘Fill this up. What about tomorrow?’

‘It might be all right.’

‘Don’t you know?’

‘I’m not two people, am I?’

Her scent wafted against him as he leaned closer. ‘I wish to God you were. I don’t know which one I’d love more.’

She smiled at his rare compliment. ‘I’ll try,’ then drew his beer and moved away.

Though the night was as black as Cherry Blossom boot polish Burton could have gone blindfold up the lane to Old Engine Cottages. Morgan and Tom, trying to follow his footsteps, swayed to either side between the hedges, and sang as if the noise would keep them free of potholes. ‘Come in for a sup of ale,’ Burton told them by the gate. ‘I’ve got a bottle cooling in the pantry.’

‘It’s eleven, and I must be up early.’

‘Me as well,’ said Morgan.

‘You’ll get all the sleep you want when you’re in hell. At least I shall.’ He led them up the path and into the house. All three faces showed when he set the glass over the lamp wick. ‘Close the door behind you quietly, then sit down. This is vintage Shipstone’s.’

The smell of ale poured from the bottle brought heads closer to the glasses. ‘How many have you got upstairs now, Burton?’ Tom wanted to know.

‘There were nine when I last counted. That was including Mary Ann.’

‘I don’t see them around much,’ Morgan said.

‘I set them to work, that’s why. Five daughters are a handful at times, and you’ve got to keep an eye on them. One of the young ‘uns is a pretty little thing, so I expect she’ll be a bit of trouble when she grows up, if I don’t tame her first.’

‘We won’t know if she’s pretty unless you fetch her down,’ Morgan said.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I didn’t say so.’

‘You meant it, though. I’ll go and get her.’

They heard his weight on the stairs, and a door opening. ‘He’s a hard bogger,’ Tom said. ‘I wouldn’t like to be one of his nippers.’

Morgan drew out his pipe. ‘He’s got something on with that Florence, and she’s married. Let’s hope his missis never finds out.’

‘Nor Florence’s husband,’ Tom laughed. ‘But wedding bells never frightened Burton. He’d run his own son off if he got half the chance.’

Morgan detected a descending tread. ‘Shut your rattle. Here he is.’

Ten-year-old Sabina was half-asleep in Burton’s arms. She stood hazy-eyed in her nightgown, looking at them from the middle of the table. ‘What did I tell you? Straight out of angel’s sleep.’

‘What a little beauty!’