OF NO FIXED ABODE

by Joyce Jeronty
IT WAS time they were all out. Some of them even
seemed to have somewhere to go. A few left for
good, with the light hardly-to-be-counted as
luggage of the vagrant, the scratched suitcases of
the casual labourers looking squashed in at the
corners like soap-cartons, but with good locks
unrusted.
Breakfast was over in the Salvation Army
Hostel. The tables were being cleared, spoons
rattled chill as pebbles in a well and the vacuums
buzzed like wasps round a jampot. Homely
sounds they seemed to the old man who had no
home. Stood with one shoulder jammed in the
foggy doorway he managed to keep out of harm’s
way as the rest thinned out to two’s and three’s
and left him alone save for the usual banter.
Wake up Granpa—
Can’t yer face another day?
Shift you old sod.
All out. Are yer deaf; bell’s gone?
What’s this? Animal, vegetable or mineral?
He never bothered looking up. Ignored any of
the pokes and jabs of the Irish crowd on their way
back from harvesting down Lincolnshire, and
one race-meeting too many.
God—what a blasted place we’ve landed up in.
Who’s this old tortoise.
They were bright as new paint in the wintry
doorway. Tanned from outdoors, three of them
in cocky berets, all blue-eyed and bouncy as colts.
The old man seemed asleep, hunched into his
raincoat and cloth-cap like a colourless shell.
Ah let him be Mike, come on, let’s get moving—
He don’t want a bed. He wants a coffin.
Their laughter roused him as they intended.
The tallest of them prodded the neb of his cap up
like lifting something out of a grate and held his
nose. Christ, he said.
Ashes of dustbins, they called back at him.
Bald as an egg, they yelled, sprinting into the
drizzly street tossing the cap like a rugby ball to
each other, dribbling it in stylish gusto across the
greasy cobblestones, their boots clattering heavy
as brewery horses and raising a spark in the poor
light.
Under that raincoat and beltings of khaki-
muffler surrounding him, and still doing the job
of holding up whatever pants he’d managed to
come across lately, was a carter’s belt. Black and
smelly as thick-twist, no longer resembling leather,
but still the buckle on it shone bright as a badge.
Lorries did the work now. And in between, what
—scrap-metal, rags, newspaper-selling, petty
thieving, prison, in and out, in and out, now
where . . . why? He hadn’t a shout left in him.
Poor old devil, said one of the Irishmen to

13
himself, limping offside and catching sight of the
old man, small, scared as a rabbit, the pallor
of his skull looking defenceless somehow, like a
new-born child. And yet another missed his catch
through nodding back at him cornered there in the
tall porchway so that as quick as it had caught on
the game fizzled out and they began moving off.
The limping one in the navy-blue duffle coat
came up with the cap, pulled it through his
armpit obligingly to dry the damp off the edges
and held it out to him.
This yours, he grinned. Have a fag, old-timer—
lighting one up for himself and shoving one under
the cap-band like a bus-ticket, he turned on his
heel and disappeared into the fog. So-long, old
tortoise, and the keys of the city, he yelled back.
Terrible to be old and broke. Unwanted. He’d
make sure he never ended up like that.
A warehouse suddenly lit up across like a
double-decker bus. Rebellious fingers had played
noughts-and-crosses to as far as they could reach
on the grimy ground-floor windows. Another had
nudes all shapes and sizes with crosses underneath
like kisses on a postcard. Motionless, the old man
gazed across as if intent on making out some
scribbled message. Minutes passed before he
raised one hand as if in disbelief. Carefully he
eased the cigarette out from under his cap-band
and looked at it, lowering his pouchy eyelids,
discoloured now and shrivelling at the edges like
mushrooms left out too long. Hardly had the smoke
time to reach his lungs before coughing shook
him like a barrel on a cart, and pulling an old
piece of rag out from his sleeve he got rid of some
of it in the proper fashion as drummed into him
by the authorities wherever he landed up. There
was no escaping the authorities. DON’T WALK
ON THE GRASS, they said. NO SMOKING,
they said, and hearing footsteps behind him in
the dark passage, a sudden chink and squeak on
the tiles of a cleaner’s bucket, the slap of a wet
mop knocking in corners, drove him out finally
into the outside. It was the daily curse: newspaper
rooms, markets, shop-windows, and not to return
to the premises before the time laid down in the
rules. Before the cleaner could abuse him he was
already across the kerb, following one shuffling
step with another at a fair pace for one of his
shoes was without a heel and the string in it had
snapped. He looked down at the other which was
new, white as a bandage, long enough to make
two he reckoned, rummaging for his penknife.
The pockets of his raincoat had worn into holes
and the clutter of his belongings had steadily
worked round under the lining till it bulged out
all round him like a lifebelt. Bobbing like a cork
he seemed and swept away on a misty tide, the
last to leave as usual.
14
Be off with yer, the cleaner swore, getting down
on to her hands and knees to tackle the doorstep.
Hanging round like a stray mongrel, she added
aloud, as the steward edged past her with a ladder.
Dirty Old Men, ugh.
Mind yer suspenders, he gagged, dipping his
washleather in the woman’s pail, the soapsuds on
top turning grey as flannels.
See you, give over, she snapped. Just look at
this step! Is it any use doing it? she pointed with
one hand coloured mustard from the yellow stone
and in the other lifting a scrubbing-brush like a
threat And that’s my water when everybody has
their own—
Plenty more in t’tap, he boomed back equably,
or I’ll gerron to Town ‘all about it, see if I don’t.
I’ll ’Appen live till then—he broke off to get a
better grip on the bulb he was changing and the
cleaner got up off her knees to steady the ladder,
calling up remarks a blend of insult and joviality
which got them through the day.
Nip thro’ yon, woman, and switch on he sang
down, swaying from right to left like an indignant
tourist. Over the rooftops running parallel three
chimney-stacks took his eye, placed neat apart as
wickets and each as wide as a roundabout. A
watery glow appeared in the lamp and flicking
over the rusted fittings with his cloth he began
clambering carefully down watching his heels and
turn-ups and as the cleaner emerged again, took
her swiftly by the elbow, saying in solemn
imitation of a voice they both knew: And the
Lord said Let there be Light . . . flinging up one
arm beseechingly, he added, in a voice leaking
with mirth . . . and lo, there was Light—
That was how he came to arrange a meeting
with her in the Lower George that evening and
in a fit of generosity and seeing as he was stood
next to him at the bar, got on talking to the old
man to pass the time on and even stood him a
half of lager as the clock moved on and she
hadn’t yet appeared in the doorway.
In between throwing a few words back and side-
ways they must have been at it half an hour non-
stop swopping the names of streets, towns, cities,
railway-stations, and other landmarks without
either of them catching the other out.
He’s travelled some, thought the steward, who
knew what he was talking about. For thirty years,
barring his war-service, he had quit the boarding-
house on the East Coast for numerous jobs out
of season, starting afresh each time, and able now
to turn his hand to anything. Sending his bit
prompt every week to his old woman put him a
notch above the usual sort, so he figured, and
entitled him to a night out occasionally. After all—
They both looked up as a car door slammed
outside and two men marched in, greeted the
landlord by name and parted with a sealed white
envelope thick as a pound of lard, which brought
most of the men in the room to their feet. As if
someone had switched the volume up the noise
suddenly deafened, turned off, and started up
again like every waveband tuning in at once.
Heads cocked alert as hounds to hear the share-
out on the big race brought two or three of the
women nearer the bar. Compacts hastily snapped
shut, one still with a comb half-raised. All of
them eyeing the competition for size, shape,
present company, and whether or not it could be
ditched without troublesome results.
Who’s the big fella with the drawl, asked one.
Counting his winnings took all his attention.
That’s Canada—won over ninety . . . ninety
. . . NINETY got took up and passed along from
table to table. Eyes opened full stretch, jaws fell,
the regulars in demand for information made
much out of little. A traveller in leather he only
called in occasionally.
Yeah . . . a commercial, yer know—they
confided, exchanging canny looks. It explained a
lot. Always.
His shiny red face beaming he knew how to
handle the occasion, ordering drinks for the
house in a kind of nasal twang and lifting a fistful
of fivers above the brown trilby of the racing-
settler, who, taking time off to swallow a light-ale
in one lift on the elbow, went on repeating as if
to himself—A bundle, a bundle, and all in doubles
and trebles. A bundle, a bundle . . .
So another free drink came the old man’s way
that night and maybe had something to do with
the way he jabbered on to the steward, talking
as if he couldn’t stop about things in his life
which had brought him to this—hard, bitter
things he struck at feebly with his fists till he
looked like a maniac, his bony chin digging away
like a trowel through the thickening smoke which
smarted his eyes to the point of tears and made
them look sewn in with red cotton.
At that, the steward took himself off to another
table near the door, unfolded a newspaper out
of his pocket, and buried himself into it, meaning
that’s that. By the time she arrived, he was really
reading it, and she had to prod him in the
shoulder-blades to attract his notice, which
annoyed her for a start. And so surprised was he
by her off-duty appearance (ear-rings and all) he
seemed not to know her, so that she spoke
sarcastic sitting down and straightway ordering
a short, thinking that would make him sit up and
speak out. As he hesitated, she snapped her
handbag shut with a crack like a pistol-shot,
causing the couple nearest to part noses abruptly
and look up after him all the way to the bar-
counter.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the old
man still muttering away threateningly and
lurching sideways, his head and shoulders jerking
all angles like an upturned tortoise. Silly old fool,
he expressed aloud, and even as the Missus passed
him his tray, they had already decided what to
do with him in the trade; the landlord nodded
through the back and one of his sons appeared,
well able to deal with it, wiping his hands down
his jersey and sucking his features in as if for a
gum-shield, for the habit had grown with him.
That’s made ’ole in ten-bob he greeted her,
showing her the change left on the tray. Her
mouth curled up. The cigarette in it fizzled sharply
spilling ash on her skirt which she knocked off
like an insect.
I know what they cost. Think I don’t? she
challenged him, as he set the brandy down and
the stone-ginger.
Worth it though, he asked meaningly, Is it
worth it eh?
Don’t say what you don’t mean, she parried, in
no hurry to sample it and leaning back stiffly in
the cane-chair which creaked like an upstairs bed.
He scowled in his beer, seeking another
opening as she swivelled round following the old
man’s noisy exit and began spinning out such a
yarn as to set her baffled expression aside for easy
laughter, the pair of them pattering on like a
music-hall.
Aw go-on, she ragged him, his natural exuber-
ance unwilling to spoil a good tale with the truth,
yet still he insisted, ’onest truth, Gel—and winked
over the cigarettes they lit up companionably
scraping the chairs up closer together till the
smell of her powder suddenly took his breath
away and he sat inhaling largely as from a strong
pinch of snuff. As she carried on talking about
the laundry-job she had left a month ago, she
fiddled constantly with the bleached curls kept
falling as bright and brittle as raffia on her dark
collar till the steward joined in after a few stray
strands, his cold fingers fumbling in the neck of
her blouse which left her screwing about in her
seat, all guff and giggles, till in no time at all
they were Norman and Doris to each other, and
set down empty glasses.
Same again he ordered cheerily, promptly.
Ah, so she’s an invalid, Doris suggested help-
15
fully by way of easing his circumstances. Roughly
he had sketched in his background as she had hers
but wary as to facts and details. He settled for it
at once, ’onest truth, he said without batting an
eye.
Wont see much of ’er then, knocking about the
size of the country. Same as mine, she added
sourly, Allus off—men . . .
“ere today and gone tomorrer. So make the
most of it, he grinned, lifting his glass like a toast.
Huh-huh, she levelled back at him is that a
warning or what? Don’t say what you don’t
mean.
He was beginning to feel sorry for the chap
she’d married by the time she stopped ranting on
about him and yawned openly a few times before
she took the hint. Even so, she said it again like
she said it before and to everyone she met.
On ’is last weekend ’ome, youngest called him
Mister. Think o’ that, his own kid calls him
Mister, don’t know ’im from Adam.
When he finally got her on talking about the
jobs she had shuffled through like a pack of cards,
Hello and Goodbye she called it, all fat and jolly
again, she could be real good company he thought,
and the bell went for closing-time sooner than
either of them expected . . . They looked up
astonished, shared the last of the salted-peanuts,
drank-up, and moved outside together as if they
had been doing it for years. A sailor asked them
the way to some address out of town and Norman
reeled it off to him in his loud fruity voice which
sent her off into gales of laughter, so that she had
to cling on to his arm to keep upright.
All them pubs . . . she choked . . . gives yer
away . . .
She’s quick on the uptake he felt admiringly.
He liked the quick pert sounds of her high-heels
on the flagged pavement and waved expansively
above the hemmed-in street all walls and windows.
Gotta good memory see. Know all the stars in
the sky too—he broke off as a sudden gust shot
out of a side-street lifting his hair till he held on
to it like a wig.
But you’re no Angel—she finished off for him,
both of them knowing the language and looking
down from the chill dark miles of sparks to where
the moonlight fell like a plank in front of their
feet, so that they strode over it as if lifting each
other, looking as daft as a couple of schoolkids
to the old man huddled in a shop-doorway across
the street, his mind a blank, save for a wind
blowing up with a sharp edge on it. Something
about them seemed familiar, but he was exhausted
from a fit of coughing, his ears still ringing like
bells, and they passed out of sight leaving him out
long after the time laid down in the rules; what
rules and what place he had no recollection of as
16
the hours went by, nor any of the names he had
lived under: not even his own, the one he was born
with.
With a swish of lights and tyres a police-car
took the corner and purred down the flat ahead.
At once he began moving the opposite way, out
of habit perhaps, keeping to the walls like a
mongrel sniffing its way through the dark and
backing into its tracks at the faintest sounds
doors, voices, footfalls . . . even the street lights
he avoided. Stopping for breath, he kept on
looking back this way and that as if someone was
after him.
His bed was unslept in that night at the hostel
and the relief-porter listed him as absent. Norman
starting early-turn Sunday noticed he had not
returned and took his file down off the top cabinet
expecting the police to call up for further parti-
culars, or the hospital. A spot of bother between
a gang of labourers started using the toilets for
unlawful purposes kept him busy all that night
and on Monday morning when the cleaner Doris
failed to turn in for duty it just about seemed the
limit. By mid-day he was a bundle of nerves,
snapping at every remark made to him by the
rest of the staff, and ready to do a quick exit. He
hung about in the little office, peering over the
top of the frosted-glass at every person entering,
already decided on denying everything, even if he
dragged her along to point him out accusingly like
that crazy woman’s husband at where was it—
Carlisle, Chester . . . Husbands racking their
brains for alibis the same as himself and having
the indecency to brawl and blather about it
publicly—Its maybe nothing but a cold or one
of the kids taken bad, he consoled himself one
minute, and the next swearing at himself and
vowing never to touch another woman as long as
he lived. After all, he was no oil-painting and
clocking up some mileage, nearing fifty, what
was it . . . round the third finger of his left hand
a serpent writhed to meet its tail in a ring—clever
bit of tattooing he had done once, fascinated him,
often he just sat there rubbing at it like it might
rub off, but it went too deep for that.
Just before three in the afternoon the Superin-
tendant had him bring the old man’s file into the
inner-office and the two of them after a short
conversation with the Station on the other end
of the telephone got picked up by an officer in
an unofficial looking Jaguar and dropped off at the
municipal morgue within half an hour.
Norman confirmed the general assumption,
though with some difficulty, for the corpse and
clothing appeared burned beyond all recognition,
but a closer scrutiny sent him reeling back,
slamming his eyelids down hard as though to blot
out that unmistakeable though now mis-shapen
brass-buckle burned in the centre as a branding
iron. The old man’s identity now being firmly
established, the others began talking shop genially
amongst themselves leaving Norman to find his
own way out, and in the local paper that night
Doris read with some alarm a front-page column—
BODY IN BRICK-KILNS
THE BODY of an elderly unidentified man was
found early this morning by an employee of
Kems Firebrick Manufacturers.
It is thought to have been burned to death in
one of the brick-kilns sometime during the week-
end and not discovered till the firm re-opened
this morning.
Enquiries are proceeding, stated the Chief
Constable, but anyone who can supply informa-
tion regarding this is requested to inform the
police, etc.
It went on to warn persons of no fixed abode
against using the brick-kilns as sleeping quarters
during the winter months and gave a total of four
deaths in five years by way of illustration.
Doris shuddered.
What’s up, her husband asked.
Nowt. Ghost walked ovva m’grave, she said
and folding it to the sporting-page, passed it
across, packing his pillows up behind him and
tapping the plaster-cast on his leg, her face
suddenly relaxed, even grinned.
That’ll keep y’put for a bit—
Aye—Can you stand it . . . d’yer think?
If you can I can, she answered, blowing smoke
in his face playfully and thinking he’d a lovely
tan on him still from the summer. Sure, he was
twice the fella Norman was. Out of the blue,
Saturday morning, a telegram from the firm,
Builders & Contractors, informing her he’d met
with an accident. The boss, grand gaffer he was,
had driven him home by car, all expenses paid,
mind you, and she could’nt stop hanging round
him like a second honeymoon, hair done up and
high heels on in the house like he was a stranger,
bawling the kids out and give a sick man some
peace and almighty quiet in his own house.
Tuesday she sent the eldest boy down with a
note in lieu of notice and what wage was due to
her he’d sign for. He never stopped talking for
ten minutes to the man at the desk and showed
him the scar on his wrist where he fell off his
bike. That got Norman looking up into the boy’s
face for the first time and twigging the likeness
straight off felt envious at her having such a fine
lad, so friendly, chattering on about his father’s
arrival in style plus broken leg like he’d won a
first prize. Relief hit him first, then indignation.
To think of her carrying on like that. It turned
his stomach over. He handed over the cards and
the boy went off whistling. As for the half-crown
the bloke with the snake-ring had slipped in his
top-pocket, he kept that to himself, knowing
discretion early.
Norman took his tea alone for he was sick of
talking and hearing others talking about the old
man’s death. The gossip and the rumours began
to make out he was in some way responsible all
because he had felt sorry for him and stood him
a drink that night—Huh, spies everywhere, he
snorted, who gets to know these things he
groused, famous last words, he cracked back at
himself, fighting it out.
He was not the only one who couldn’t stop
reading the day’s account of it. Doris lighting up
one cigarette after another roused her husband
to a flaming lecture on economy, and taking
advantage of his disability flung a few taunts
back at him she would never have dared to get
away with before.
’ome, sweet soddin’ ’ome, he groaned back
wearily, as she went at it full-blast, going through
his faults with a small-tooth comb. The devil it is,
he intoned, drawing the sheet over his head like
a dead man.
Doris could have screamed. ’ell, I’ll pay y’back
for that, she threatened, beside herself at the way
things suddenly fell to pieces like this—devil,
devil, devil, she stamped, tearing the newspaper
to shreds like she just had to blame something.
BODY IDENTIFIED. Norman stared at it
dully the print blurring out of focus as the
nausea gripped his throat. To end up like that,
ugh . . . William Wardle (67) bachelor, unem-
ployed of no fixed abode—he read again, peering
as if through a fog. It haunted him that line.
Jiggered his nerves like a dripping tap—clop—
clop—clop—like footsteps outside going on and
on . . . He got up abruptly. Like a flash it came
to him to write a letter home. Time he settled
down anyroad. A dog’s life. The Missus would
throw a fit, he laughed, feeling suddenly his old
self again and ready for anything.
But a week later as he stood on the railway
platform eating a meat-pie—all packed-up and
ready to go—he got on talking to a couple of
brickies bound for a new plant opening up in
Cumberland and so absorbing their plans and
prospects appeared, drawing diagrams and totting
up bonus-rates on cigarette packets, that he
missed his own train and eventually landed up
on theirs.
17