Birthday by Alan Sillitoe

and as strong as an ox. He wore a little sandy coloured beard, and Arthur often wanted to reach out and pull the crumbs away, but didn’t, as much for the crumbs’ sake as Paul’s, not wanting to deprive the refugee bread of its hiding place, or see Paul eat it when he handed it back to him.
    Though Adelaide had married Paul for love, or so you had to suppose, she would never stop telling him that he was too rough in his ways ever to make her happy. Paul worshipped her, would do anything she asked, except remove his beard, or cotton on to the extent of looking more presentable. Maybe he had a screw loose, though he was clever with his hands and must have had a brain because of the job he did. Adelaide was a beautiful and personable woman, who told Paul time and time again that he just wasn’t good enough for her; for which, Arthur thought, I would either have smacked her in the chops or sent her packing, probably both.
    Paul only ever stopped working to sleep. He would come home in the evening from the factory, stuff a sandwich into his lantern jawed face (without washing his hands, Arthur supposed) then put in a few hours at a building site fixing machinery till midnight, all to coin extra money so that Adelaide could buy more pots of make-up and have something to spend at the hairdressers’. Arthur once called at the site to have a chat, and Paul was so tired he didn’t notice him walking out with a bag of nuts and bolts, which he took back a few nights later, minus a dozen to fix some bookshelves.
    Disaster to Paul’s marriage happened when one of Arthur’s workmates’ wives, who had a job at the same place as Adelaide, told her husband she was being fucked stupid by one of the chief embroiderer’s. Arthur’s mate informed Arthur, who passed the information on to Avril who, Paul being her cousin, had to tell him about Adelaide’s fling, thinking it only right that he should know, and that it was better to be honest because he could then sort out his marriage and go on living amicably with Adelaide, for the children’s sake at least. Arthur had always said, even before learning about the affair, that sooner or later Adelaide would start doing it on her cousin. ‘And so would I,’ he went on, ‘because he won’t tidy himself up. A man’s got to look good now and again in front of his wife, like I do for you.’
    Avril laughed, but rewarded him with a kiss. ‘I know. You were always a smart dresser.’
    Arthur couldn’t understand why Paul’s fingernails were rarely as clean as they should be, even when he wore a suit on Sundays. Personal cleanliness didn’t cost anything, needed only ten minutes with soap, comb, nailbrush and flannel at the sink every evening. Even when Paul was dressed up as if he was going to Buckingham Palace to get a medal he looked grubby. He sniffed every few seconds as if an invisible turd swung back and forth under his nose. No wonder he’d never had another woman except Adelaide. No other woman would take him on, and Arthur couldn’t understand why Adelaide had, unless she knew she’d be able to shit on him and get away with it more than with any other bloke. She wouldn’t even have him in the same room, never mind in the same bed, after their first kid was born.
    Paul was so turned over backwards when he learned about the affair that he could hardly speak to Adelaide. His face was the picture of dangerous humiliation. Arthur hoped he would never have to go through such trouble, had advised Avril not to tell him, but the matter was finally sorted out in their kitchen. Paul leaned against the sink, eyes more and more bloodshot as he tried to hold in his anger, cigarette ash spilling into his beard. Arthur, who had just made some tea, could see it coming, and it did.
    Paul let rip, but kept his hands firmly together, calling her a treacherous slimy whore not fit to live with anybody. She was a