The Death of William Posters by Alan Sillitoe Page A

coverts to Market Stainton. With a cold pint in him he trekked over Dog Hill, took the sloping track through fields that met the houses of High Benniworth. His eyes had sharpened and, as winter gripped, more life was evident. The faintest impress of rabbit feet vanished into a spinney. Magpies argued on a dung heap just inside a farm gate; dogs and cocks called in tune with vertical smoke going out of the chimney – life in spite of all doors closed. By Warren Hilltop, where the sun reflected shadows on the green-white landscape, a spring poured from a hedge bottom. Gulls screamed upwards – often seen no matter how bitter the weather, and always reminding him that the sea was close, only fifteen miles east of his crunching feet, a flaking, slow, raw-heaving sea of frost and desolation. Winter was in the earth like King Arthur’s sword, waiting for a hand of resolution to heave it out and set off over land and sea. He smiled at such a flamboyant impossible image, knowing he was fixed in Lincolnshire for a long time with the sort of love he had on his hands.
    In drunkenness he had spoken the truth, saying he was in love for the first time. He reminded Pat next morning that he had said this, and neither had she forgotten the night that his words had branded. Understanding of them had matured, and his drunkenness subsided by the time they got to bed. He was surprised that she hadn’t resented his coming back in such a state. He’d mistrusted her amusement at it, having expected, when phoning in advance, a retort to stay out until he was sober. Not a bit of it. She took it well. Maybe she was not as rigid as he’d often thought. She even seemed more relaxed, as if flattered at the possibility that for the first time he had revealed part of his real self to her. They drew closer together in spirit. She hadn’t even bothered to ask why he’d got drunk. Not that he knew, either, though maybe it had been so that this understanding could be reached between them. Things sometimes worked that way, though he could never imagine her admitting it, and in any case he would never get drunk again.
    They talked about Kevin, who was to come up in a week from boarding school, and stay for Christmas. ‘How are you going to explain me?’ he asked.
    â€˜I’m not. I’ll simply tell him.’
    â€˜Isn’t he a bit young?’
    â€˜You don’t think I could lie, do you? He’s eleven. He’s old enough to know.’ They drove to Lincoln, Frank at the wheel, taking it slowly on frosty bends. Kevin had caught the express from St Pancras, then the diesel from Nottingham. It drew quietly into the long platform on time, half empty so that Frank thought it a train still to go out before the one waited for came in. He expected all trains to arrive crowded, people packed by the windows ready to disembark. Right from the beginning of childhood, railways had been life lines to him, the double attraction later on of machines travelling. A train rushing under a bridge and through a station was a serious and romantic sight, mystical and full of power over a person’s life. He had rarely taken a train, rather bus or car, because to do so would be committing himself in a way he felt hardly ready for.
    They walked along the platform. Pat wore a heavy camel coat and fur boots; Frank a thick sweater under his mackintosh, and ordinary shoes. Kevin already had his case down, stood by it till he saw them. Expecting his mother alone, it took some time to recognize her. She embraced him: ‘Hello, darling’ – and asked about his trip down.
    He was a tall, dark haired boy of eleven, had the same shape and colour eyes as his mother, though lacking their clarity. His features were similar, slightly darker, and his presence seemed more poised and careful regarding the different worlds he moved in, as if much of Pat’s one-time and far-off assurance had passed early to him – though the