The Chequer Board Read Online Free PDF Page B

alcoves, where a man can tell his friends a blue story without telling every lady in the room. Mr Turner loved the Barley Mow better than almost any other local he frequented.
    For one thing, there always seemed to be people there whom he knew. That night there was Georgie Harriesand his wife, and Gillie Simmonds with a new girl friend who was on the stage, and fat old Dickie Watson, the bookmaker, with a party. All these greeted Mr Turner—“Jackie, you old sod!”—“What’s it to be Jackie?”—“Jackie, you get home all right last Friday? (Sotto voce) Never see anyone so pissed in all my life!”—“Evening, Mrs Turner; got him on string tonight? What’ll you take for it?”
    It was the atmosphere that Mr Turner loved. He drank pint after pint of beer, while Mollie stood in bright, forced cheerfulness with a gin and ginger, one eye on the clock. Smoke wreathed about them and the voices rose and the place grew hotter and the atmosphere thicker as the minute hand moved forward to the hour. Mr Turner stood red-faced and beaming in the midst, mug in hand, the great wound pulsing in his forehead, telling story after story from his vast repertoire. “Well, this porter he went on the witness stand and told the Court of Enquiry that it was his first day with the Company. The Chairman asks if he see the accident. He says, ‘Aye. I see the express run right into the trucks.’ The Chairman asks him what he did next. ‘Well, sir, I turns to the ticket collector, and I says, “That’s a bloody fine way to run a railway!”’” In the shout of laughter that followed, the manager said, “Time, ladies and gentlemen, please!” and turned out half the lights. One by one the company went out into the cool night air; starters ground in the car park, and lights shone out in beams, and the cars slipped off up the road to London.
    At the little Ford, Mollie said acidly, “Good thing I’m driving you, after five pints of beer.”
    “Four pints,” said Mr Turner. “I only had four.” Theair was fresh on his face, the moon clear above him in a deep-blue sky. It was perfect in the night. He felt relaxed, as if all his fatigue and distress were soaking out of him. A week was a long time to go without a bit of a blind.
    “It was five,” said his wife. “I counted them myself.”
    He was relaxed and happy, and now she was nagging at him. He turned on her irritably. “What the hell does it matter if I have four or five? I’ll have fifty if I want, my girl. I won’t be drinking anything this time next year if what they said at the hospital is right.”
    She stared at him. “What did they say at the hospital?”
    “They said I’m going to die before so long.”
    In the quiet serenity of the night that did not seem very important; it was only important that she should shut up and not spoil his evening. “Now you get on and start her up, and shut up talking.”
    She opened her mouth to give as good as she got, but said nothing. What he had told her was incredible; and yet it was what she had secretly feared for some time. Beneath her irritation with him she was well aware that his condition had deteriorated in the last six months; he was not physically the man he once had been. Moreover, it was no good arguing with him when he had just drunk five pints of beer; from past experience she knew that much. She got into the car in silence and started the engine; in silence he got in beside her and slammed the door, and they started down the long white concrete road to home.
    They did not speak again till they turned into the garage of the little house at Watford, forty minutes later. Closing the doors, she said to him, “What was that theytold you at the hospital?” She spoke more gently, having had time to reflect.
    By this time Mr Turner was more firmly on earth. It was quiet and still and moonlit in the garden, and it was warm. “Let’s get the deck chairs out ’n sit a bit,” he said, “I got to tell you all about it