V
‚ÄúWell, George,‚Äù said Joby, the next morning, ‚Äúyer done me a good turn or two, see. I‚Äôd like to keep yer on the job a bit longer, but yer see ‚Äôow it is. And this oughter straighten us up a bit.‚Äù And he handed over an extremely dirty bit of paper that turned out, much to Mr.¬ÝOakroyd‚Äôs surprise, to be a pound note.
“Nay, I don’t know as how I can tak’ this,” he said doubtfully. “You’ve given me summat to eat and sup and a bed like, and I’ve done nowt to earn this.”
‚ÄúYer the first West Riding feller I ever knew to look sideways at‚ÅÝ‚Äîwhat do you Tykes call it?‚ÅÝ‚Äîa bit o‚Äô brass. Nar then, George, put that in yer pocket.‚Äù
And Mr.¬ÝOakroyd did put it in his pocket and even tried to mumble some words of thanks, an agonizing task to any true Bruddersfordian, who always tries to arrange his life so that he will be spared such appalling scenes. Mr.¬ÝOakroyd himself had always regarded with suspicion any person‚ÅÝ‚Äînot counting affected southrons and the like‚ÅÝ‚Äîwho showed a readiness to say ‚ÄúPlease‚Äù and ‚ÄúThank you,‚Äù and was genuinely troubled afterwards by the thought that perhaps his travels were already sapping his manly independence and might lead him to indulge‚ÅÝ‚Äîas he said himself‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äúin all sorts o‚Äô daft tricks.‚Äù
‚ÄúAnd I‚Äôll tell yer what, George,‚Äù Joby continued, ‚Äúif yer‚Äôve found nothing, get a lift to Nottingham next week‚ÅÝ‚ÄîThursday, Friday, Saturday‚ÅÝ‚ÄîGoose Fair, and take a look round for me and Tommy, see. All the boys‚Äôll be there, and I might be able to find something for yer. Good tradesman, eh, George? ‚ÄôAndle a saw, every time, eh? That‚Äôs the stuff. Don‚Äôt ferget, Nottingham.‚Äù
“Ay, if I’ve nowt on, I will.”
“Good enough! What’s the ruddy move now then, George? We can give yer a lift on the way, can’t we? What say?”
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd shook his head decisively. ‚ÄúNay, you go one way and I‚Äôll go t‚Äôother. You‚Äôve had enough bother wi‚Äô me. Where do this here road go to?‚Äù
‚Äú‚Ää‚ÄôAlf a minute, ‚Äôalf a minute.‚Äù Joby scratched his head, looked at the road, frowned at it, then scratched his head again. ‚ÄúTommy fetched me ‚Äôere‚ÅÝ‚Äîter call at ‚Äôis boozer‚ÅÝ‚Äîbut I been ‚Äôere before. I‚Äôve been everywhere, I ‚Äôave. Yer can‚Äôt lose me. I know, George, I know. ‚ÄôEre, go down this road, keep round to the left‚ÅÝ‚Äî‚Äôbout six miles‚ÅÝ‚Äîand yer‚Äôll come to a place called Rawsley. Biggish place‚ÅÝ‚Äîtwenty or thirty boozers there‚ÅÝ‚Äîgood ‚Äôuns some of ‚Äôem. A feller called Thompson‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJimmy Thompson‚ÅÝ‚Äîused to keep one‚ÅÝ‚Äîknew ‚Äôim well, used to be a welterweight, and tidy with ‚Äôem, too. That‚Äôs the place‚ÅÝ‚ÄîRawsley. They ‚Äôave a fair third week in July‚ÅÝ‚Äînot so bad, neither‚ÅÝ‚Äîbest round ‚Äôere. Yer might easy pick something up there, see. ‚ÄôAve a look at Rawsley, George.‚Äù
Mr.¬ÝOakroyd brought his basket trunk and his bag of tools out of the van and then stood waiting for Joby to come out too. It was quite late in the morning and there was every indication now that the fine autumn weather they had been having had at last come to an end. There had been rain earlier on, and though it was fine now, the sky was overclouded and it was much colder than it had been. It was the wrong kind of day on which to go off on your own again; the road looked cheerless, the whole prospect forlorn. ‚ÄúA poor do,‚Äù thought Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, waiting to say goodbye.
When Joby did come out he brought with him a little package loosely wrapped in brown paper. ‚ÄúYer‚Äôll want these, George,‚Äù he said. ‚ÄúYer don‚Äôt pass nothing on the way to Rawsley, see.‚Äù He handed over the package. ‚ÄúSandwiches‚ÅÝ‚Äîour own ruddy make,‚Äù he explained, looking almost apologetic. ‚ÄúIf yer don‚Äôt want ‚Äôem, give ‚Äôem to the poor, George, give ‚Äôem to the poor, but for God‚Äôs sake don‚Äôt start arguing the toss about ‚Äôem.‚Äù
‚ÄúAll right, Joby lad, I won‚Äôt,‚Äù said Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, putting on his old mackintosh and stuffing the sandwiches into the pocket. ‚ÄúAnd I hope I see thee agen afore so long.‚Äù He held out his hand, feeling that he might go to any lengths now after such a desperately emotional speech.
Joby shook it enthusiastically. “Well, George, I’ll tell yer something. Yer the best Yorkshire lad I’ve met for a long time. I’m not fond of ’em as a rule, see. I don’t get on with ’em.”
‚ÄúAy,‚Äù replied Mr.¬ÝOakroyd gravely, ‚Äúwe tak‚Äô a bit o‚Äô knowing.‚Äù
‚ÄúBut you‚Äôre all right, George, you are,‚Äù Joby continued, persisting with this imaginary Christian name to the very end. ‚ÄúAnd any time yer want to find me, just drop me a line to The World‚Äôs Fair‚ÅÝ‚Äîthat‚Äôs our paper, see‚ÅÝ‚ÄîJoby Jackson, care of The World‚Äôs Fair. That‚Äôll find me all right every time. So long, George, and all the best!‚Äù
Half a mile down the road a spatter of rain overtook Mr.¬ÝOakroyd, and at the end of the next half-mile it was raining in good earnest, so that he thought it wiser to shelter under some trees. He sat down on his two bags and pulled out his pipe and pouch. But there were only a few crumbs of Old Salt left, enough perhaps for one small pipe, and he wisely decided that this was not the time to smoke them. ‚ÄúI must save ‚Äôem till I‚Äôve had summat to eat,‚Äù he told himself. He sat there in his chilly and glistening mackintosh, forlornly watching the raindrops dance on the road and an occasional faded leaf flutter down to his feet. A postman on a bicycle went past, then a large closed car; and that was all the traffic there was. Try as he might, Mr.¬ÝOakroyd could not drown a little voice that kept asking him if he had not been a fool to leave home and wander about like this. True, he was better off than he had been two mornings ago, for then he had had nothing at all and now he had a pound. But what was a pound? And what was he to do now? There weren‚Äôt many Jobys about. This thought brought him closer to the heart of his melancholy. It was the joyous reunion of Joby and his pal Tommy that had really made him feel so desolate. Joby had been a good sort but he didn‚Äôt want him, Jess Oakroyd, not after his own pal had come back. Nobody wanted him, except Lily, who was far away in Canada, and even she didn‚Äôt seem to mind their not being together. There wasn‚Äôt a chap in Bruddersford who would care twopence where Jess Oakroyd was and what had happened to him. Even Sam Oglethorpe wouldn‚Äôt bother his head five minutes about him. And his own wife and son were glad to be rid of him. And yet he was a friendly chap really, only too willing to put in a good bit of hard work for somebody and then have his pipe and pint afterwards with a mate or two. At least, so it seemed to him, but as he thought it over and over, in a dragging and dreary fashion, his mind grew shadowy and fearful with doubt. Perhaps there was something wrong with him. But now his feet touched solid ground and he sprang up, erect. ‚ÄúThere‚Äôs nowt wrong wi‚Äô me,‚Äù he declared sturdily. ‚ÄúI‚Äôll ha‚Äô summat to eat.‚Äù
He pulled out the sandwiches and, remembering how Joby had given them to him, he felt a little more cheerful. As he munched away, the sun came struggling through again and the rain dwindled to a few glittering drops. The road looked more inviting now than the chill damp shade of the trees, and he hurried through his little meal, lit the last shreds of Old Salt, then walked out into the sunlight. He was wandering on again. The thought brought him a tiny thrill of pleasure now. As he trudged down the road, he mused upon that first fine clatter down the Great North Road, the Kirkworth Inn, Mr.¬ÝPoppleby and Joby and the Professor and the rubber dolls. Their images were still popping in and out of his mind when he reached a crossroads and saw that the signpost to the left pointed to Rawsley. As he turned down this new road, a sudden excitement took possession of him. He even stopped, put down his bags, took the pipe out of his mouth, and spoke aloud.
“Eh,” he cried, “but I’ve seen summat this week. I’ve had a bit o’ fun on me travels if I never see nowt no more.”
Perhaps that began it all. They were brave words, manfully spoken from the heart, and we do not know how far such words may travel nor what they may set in motion. A minute or two later, he turned a corner and saw that the length of road before him was empty except for a single stationary object some distance away. It was a small car. He walked towards it, leisurely, incuriously. He did not know that this was to be, for him, no ordinary car, that he was casually crossing the threshold of another world.