England's Lane by Joseph Connolly Page A

months she carried him—sick as a dog, most days. All for nothing, though. And they say it, don’t they? All about God, and his mysterious ways. Yes well. Don’t go to church any more, not after that. Thing like that, some people they’ll be kneeling down and blessing themselves, blathering on about this faith of theirs being tested to the limits—yeh and all the rest of the Jesus baloney, and praying like the dickens to what they still do seem to believe is the heaven above them. Lighting candles and bawling their bloody eyes out. And others, other sorts—well like me, for instance—they just turn away from the sight of it. No demonstration, none of the fist-waving … just a cold shoulder, sort of style. Yes. And so God now, he can go on working in any kind of ways he bloody well likes, but I’m damned if I’ll be seen to encourage him. And then Janey, seeing our Anthony that way—all lopsided and a brave little face on him—well …couldn’t handle it, see? Turned away from the sight of it. Can hardly blame her: pitiful to watch, it can be. But somebody had to, didn’t they? Deal with it. Somebody had to. So now, well—it’s what I do. I do the shop, yeh—but what I really do is Anthony. It’s hardest in the holidays, when I’ve got him all day. Weren’t for young Paul, I’d be in a bit of a spot. Yes I truly would. And talk of the devil … here he is now, look—bang on time, just like always. That’ll be on account of his Auntie Milly, of course. She’s a wonderful woman, she is. And I do feel mean, sometimes, just slipping him a chew or a stick of liquorice from the penny tray. Piccaninnies and flying saucers he’s partial to as well, so I let him have a couple of those, time to time. But see, if I were to run to a packet of Spangles, or something—tube of Smarties, sort of style … well word gets out at that school, and they’ll all be down on me like a plague of flies. Bad enough as it is. And with Anthony there, well I’d have to, wouldn’t I? Give it out to all of them. And I can’t afford that—just can’t afford to, simple as that. It’s not a question of meanness, it’s a question of money. Those school fees, they don’t ever lower them, do they? Reduce them, bring them down. No they don’t, sir. Most of the people round here, of course—they don’t have that problem because they just won’t put the effort in, my way of seeing it. Happy to send their kids to the ordinary schools. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with them, the council schools, not saying they’re really bad, or anything … but I do think it’s your duty as a parent to secure for your child the best that’s on offer. That’s it in a nutshell. And it’s difficult. I wouldn’t try telling you it’s easy. But it’s duty. It’s duty. And love, of course. Dedication. Though what I’ve seen of Jim Stammer, I doubt he can be thinking like that. But Milly—it’ll be Milly behind it. Such a nice woman. Handsome woman. Hard worker. He’s a very lucky man, Jim is. To have such a woman as that. Very lucky man. I’ll never forget: she was in the shop, onetime—stocking up on her parma violets and getting in some Tizer for Paul, as I recall—and she said to me right out of the blue “Just think, Stan—if I’d married you I’d be called Milly Miller. That would be funny, wouldn’t it?” “Oh yes,” I said to her—and we were both sort of laughing by this time—“that would be funny: that would be rich.” Yes it would. Rich indeed. Odd though, isn’t it? The things you remember, and the things you forget. So anyway I must, you see—I just must give him the very best start in life, the best I can. Except it isn’t the start, of course. Aware of