by Ian Dyer
She was smirking and it pleased Simon. He hadn’t seen that little smirk all day, thought for a few minutes during the earlier episode that he wouldn’t see it for the rest of his days.
‘Corned beef you twat. Now grab em out of the fridge, second shelf I think, and be quick about it, you have about two minutes before dad comes back in here and gives ya what for, best you not keep him waiting.’
‘How the hell am I going to survive tonight without you there translating for me?’ The sandwiches were on the shelf; unwrapped and ready to go. He took them out and held them out to Lucy like they were some ancient artefact he had come across during a dig.
‘Christ, look at the size of these bad boys! It’s like two loaves of bread with a wedge of cow smashed in the middle. And look at all that brown sauce.’
‘You like brown sauce.’
‘Yeah, but come, there must be half a bottle in there.’
‘Well if ya don’t want them then put them back. But don’t come crying to me when you have had a skin full and are puking yer guts up all over the shop making a dick of yourself in front of your future father in law. Be prepared to drink a lot tonight bucko; the men up here will make sure you do and won’t forget it if ya don’t.’
The last thing he had eaten was an overpriced Panini from a service station at around lunchtime. The smell of the sandwich was starting to make his stomach rumble and his mouth salivate. He closed the fridge door and took a bite out of the wedge. It was delicious, though the brown sauce made it hard to breathe for a moment, and he took one more bite as he headed over to Lucy and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
‘Wish me luck?’
She glanced up, physically pulling herself away from the black and white images that she was looking through. She also made an effort to cover up some of them with her arms.
‘Be careful what you say, Simon. It’s a different world up here. It’s not like The Rose back home, they don’t know you so that means some of them won’t like you, and they will make that pretty obvious too.’
Her eyes were a fire of concern and Simon believed that given half a chance they would crawl out of her sockets and try and bore their way into his own eyes. His throat had become dry all of a sudden, he could sense her seriousness even though he had never seen her like this and whatever warning she was giving she meant it – really meant it – like when a parent tells you not to walk on railway lines or play with traffic.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll be careful, Lucy, promise. Scouts honour and all that.’
Lucy took hold of his hand. ‘Don’t call me that. Not here, not even if we are alone, don’t call me it. And another thing, I know what you are like, don’t flash the cash, don’t buy a round just because you think that that will get yer some leeway with these guys. It don’t work like that, not here. Doing that is just a sure fire way to find yerself in the alleyway having the shite kicked out of ya.’
She let go of his hand as from outside the engine of the Cortina roared into life and the headlights blinked off and on a few times – hurry up southerner, they yelled, hurry up and come and see how real men drink!
Lucy looked out of the window. ‘You’d best be off and I shall see you later.’ And Simon could only kiss her on the forehead as she had once again become consumed by the photos.
2
By the time Simon reached the car he had finished eating the giant sandwich. The moon was high and big and round, a type of moon he had heard be called a Hunters Moon from time to time, and the forest, the valley and the courtyard, were glowing with its milky blue light. Even the old Cortina looked luminous under the moons ethereal glow. In the distance he could hear the rushing water of the stream.
Simon walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He expected a creek, maybe a groan from the old door as he pulled hard on the handle; but there was nothing and the motion was as smooth as his own.
He went to get in but stopped as Mr Rowling said, ‘in the back, son.’
At first Simon thought he was joking. I mean, come on, what was he a kid, an ambassador, Lady Muck? He was about to chuckle and wave it off and carry on getting in the front but stopped; Mr Rowling’s face; his narrow eyes, his pursed lips, his furrowed brow; he was serious! As serious as he had been when he had asked Simon to watch his language and to not call Barbara, Lucy.
‘You mean…’
‘In back. Front seat was Mrs Rowling’s and’s now Barbara’s.’
He closed the door and opened the rear door and sat behind what was once Mrs Rowling’s seat. The beige velour was soft, the car smelt clean, really clean, like it had been through a washing machine and hung out to dry. Surely no car this old should smell this good, Christ, even his own motor which was barely four months old didn’t smell this good.
‘Seatbelt, Simon. They save lives if yaknow what I mean.’
Like a good boy Simon did as he was told because he knew what Mr Rowling meant.
3
Mr Rowling put the car into gear, released the handbrake and eased the car off of the slippery cobbles and onto the road heading back the way Simon had come. The road ahead was hidden in darkness, lit only by the low beams of the Cortina. Mr Rowling wasn’t exactly putting his foot down but was doing a fair lick of speed, the car didn’t lumber but floated along the tarmac bouncing lightly from bump to bump, crest to crest, corner to corner. He clearly knew these roads like the back of his hand and as he reached the junction to the main road he flicked off his headlights, turned them on again and turned right without slowing or stopping as the road signs suggested.
‘You see what I did there, son? I dipped the lights, saw no other car coming and so knew it was okay to carry on without even stopping. Ya see, if I hadn’t done that I would have had tastop and fart about. But cars like this, Simon, home built cars that is, can do stuff like that. Akourse, they do need a man behind the wheel, if ya know what I mean.’ He flicked his eyes to the rear view mirror; a sly grin lit by the dials of the dashboard.
He’s gauging me. He’s gauging what sort of a guy I am. Will I bite, won’t I? Will I try and speak up for what I am, for what I drive, or won’t I. Am I a man or aren’t I?
Go with the flow.
If Lucy’s mantra; was a voiced concern is a concern gone then Simons was; go with the flow and he had lived his life by it, much to the annoyance of his friends, his family and Lucy for that matter. Going with the flow usually meant that poor service was put up with, shoddy work was never challenged, and bills not paid met with a lack lustre approach and in general, as Lucy put it; shit just doesn’t get done! But none the less, Simon carried on like that and wouldn’t change and would always just go with the flow. Go with the flow, don’t cause ripples and Simon smiled and returned his gaze to the village that went whizzing by.
They had been on the road for less than ten minutes when Mr Rowling slowed, pulled the car into a narrow driveway between two stone buildings, and parked his car in the empty car park. The engine turned over a couple of times before coming to an end. The car fell silent and became dark as the keys were removed and the small lights over the doors went out. Simon removed the rather tight seat belt and took hold the polished door handle.
‘So, Simon, I take it Barbara warned ya; bout this place?’
‘Well, wouldn’t say warn, but she did give me some advice.’
The old boy kept his eyes fixed to the road and his hands were clasped to the steering wheel. ‘This is a Working Man’s Club, Simon. Working Man’s Club, yaknow what I mean?’
I’m going to snap. I don’t have a String, don’t need one – go with the flow and all that – but I’m going to go off here. I know what you are going to say Bob, don’t do it, please, don’t do it…
‘Barbara wouldn’t have warned yer if she didn’t think it necessary, Simon.’
Go with the flow Simon. Come on, go with the flow. Wanker or not, this guy is your future father in law.
‘Look, Mr Rowling,’ Simon said leaning forward; looking at th
e reflection of the old boy in the windscreen, ‘I’m not some wet behind the ears, knee high to a grass hopper baby. I’m thirty-five years old. I have a mortgage. My own business and my own car for heaven’s sake. Not many men can say that now can they? I know I don’t fit what might make for a man here – whatever that is for crying out loud - but as sure as muck is muck, I am a man, and I would appreciated it if you treated me as such.’ And Simon sat back hard against the velour and the car bounced a little.
‘We shall see, Simon.’ And with that the car door opened and Mr Rowling stepped out into the cool night air.
4
The two men walked across the poorly lit car.
‘Is this the only place for a drink in the village, Mr Rowling?’
‘Yup. Always has and always will. Folks have tried, but they don’t understand how places like this work. They come here wahope, seeing money where there aint none, seeing a bunch of men working hard, dirt on their hands and in their hair and they think that a few low priced beers and cheap fried grub will get the wallet taopen. But they don’t understand, Simon, they don’t understand and they aint welcome.’
They walked through the orange glow of an overhead street light and their shadows shrunk and then stretched out.
‘I’m surprised a big supermarket chain hasn’t opened up here. Especially now that they seem to cramp all the stuff into those little stores.’
‘Like I said, Simon, folks have tried, but they don’t understand. Like that car yagot. Folks from other parts don’t like it up here, they don’t like the air, they can’t get used to it, Simon, and they don’t understand the village and the history of this place and how,’ he paused then; scratching his chin and pulling his hands through his hair. Finally the words came to him as he splashed through a puddle, ‘how we don’t need them. We don’t need them and we certainly don’t need all their bits and pieces that can go wrong, that can break and then nothing works, Simon. Nothing works and the village dies. We can’t let that happen.’
They were about halfway across the car park which had no cars in it except Mr Rowling’s when he noticed that one of the buildings was a burnt out hulk.
Simon said, ‘Sad to see old buildings go like that. All that history just lost.’
Mr Rowling didn’t break stride, nor look over to where Simon was looking and Simon was sure he could hear a sense of glee as the old man spoke about the fire damaged building.
‘Fire got that one. Mr Grayson, the old boy that live there, died in the fire; burnt to akrisp he were. You see, Simon, the fire got him, that’s why he died. Fire does that, ya know, it burns ya, especially if you is unable to get away from it.’
What is this some public safety announcement? Does he think I don’t know what fire is? Go with the flow, Simon. Go with the F.L.O.W. don’t rock the boat, don’t further spoil what has already been a crappy day. He’s been alone for a long time, never had the chance to tell people about the dangers of fire. Never had the chance to pass on his deep and all-knowing snippets of insanity.
Simon found it hard not to chuckle, not to burst out laughing. The dangers of fire! This guy couldn’t be for real, could he? Already Simon knew he had a few good tales to tell his mates when he got home. They would love this guy, not in person, but as a butt of a joke, or as a; your father in law aint a patch on mine tale of woe, this Mr Rowling was untouchable. And as much as Simon wanted to stop him there,
right there if it pleases ya, Mr Rowling, do you think I am some sort of mentally retarded fucktard that doesn’t understand that fire can kill or that understands that cars from 1972 aint as reliable as cars made now and that time does move – its linear – not paused whenever and wherever you fancy? Well do ya?
and no matter how much he wanted to say that he guessed it best just to let it wash over him. Wash over him and not leave a trace as it dripped off of his conscious and onto the floor.
Go with the flow, Simon, Go. With. The. F.L.O.W.
5
In the far corner of the car park, which was in fact the old village square, there was an old brick building that stood taller and wider than any other in Rottenhouse. It was three stories high, and there were five windows on each floor, large windows with great sheets of glass reflecting back the moon and the stars. The ground floor windows were alight, whilst the upper windows were dark. The front of this Victorian era building was lit up by two bright bulbous lights on the end of long cast iron poles. In between the lamps were a set of sandstone steps that led up to a monstrous painted door; its glossy green surface a blaze of colour in the dark night.
Simon headed up the stairs, cautiously, as they were still slick from the earlier rain shower.
On the right hand side of the door, screwed into the old brick wall was a brass sign (freshly shined by the looks of it) that read:
Rottenhouse
Working Man’s Club
Est. 1875
This was an old building, but it didn’t look it. Even under the glow of the two lamps and the soft sheen of the street lamps, the Working Man’s Club looked untouched by time; the opposite of the buildings that surrounded it, which were a chequerboard of old and new brickwork and green with moss and decay. This old building had seen many things and probably held many secrets, Simon thought as the door opened and he followed Mr Rowling through into the main reception area. There was an atmosphere that surrounded this club, both inside and out, a smell encased it; like the smell of flints as they sparked together – burning – but not on fire. It was a hot atmosphere, thick like toffee but not sweet, actually it was the opposite of sweet, and it left a tang on the tongue which was foul and not pleasant.
The reception area was large with brown and beige wallpapered walls and the walls were adorned with all sorts of old decorations and fixtures and fittings: antlers, cups and trophies, guns, hunting paintings, paintings of men with guns, paintings of men with trophies, heads of animals, a brass canon, a painting of a woman with her breasts and arse showing, paintings of animals both dead and alive, stuffed pheasants and photos of men playing cricket and golf and football. From the high ceiling there hung a great chandelier with light bulbs that tried to trick you into thinking they were candles. There were many doors leading to many secret places and there was a small wooden desk much like you would find in an old hotel in the middle of the reception area, unmanned at the moment, but only recently as a cigarette released a grey wisp of smoke into the air. The stairway leading both downstairs and upstairs was at the far end of the reception room and it spiralled its way up and up to poorly lit hallways. The part of the stairway that led down into the basement looked newer, not the marble and wood and cast iron of its forebear, more like concrete and wood, and it was dark, really dark, and looking down there Simon had the same gut wrenching feeling he had when he looked at the gaping metallic mouth of the garage back at the edge of the village and on the walls that led down into that dark place there hung just two paintings, bigger than the others that ordained the reception, but they were shrouded in the darkness – the urge to look upon them, to know what they were was great, but so to was the urge to run away from this place. Run away screaming.
Simon realised, when he heard the not so dulcet tones of Mr Rowling, that he had been stood in the doorway, mouth open like a teenagers first glimpse of a titty, for some time and that the old man was stood next to the reception desk waiting patiently by a closed door.
‘Come on, Simon. Don’t be scared. I thought you were man?’
Was that a joke? Who knew? Simon most certainly did not. There was a soft clatter of balls, as if a game of snooker was being played from behind the closed door to his left as he quickly moved from the front door to where Mr Rowling was standing.
Mr Rowling put his hand on the brass door handle and before turning it he looked at Simon dead straight in the eye and as he spoke his voice was low, a whisper almost. ‘You’re in my world, Simon. This is Working Man’s Club and the men here demand respect. So before I open door, best y
ou leave whatever type you is out here and try not to make a fool outta me in there, yaknow what I mean. If you is a man like ya say you are, then now would be a good time to show it.’
Simon blinked as spittle splashed his face such was the over pronunciation of the word it. He slid off his coat and surreptitiously wiped his face clean of any phlegm that may have been there. Before he could say anything, though he didn’t really know what to say because once again what could you say for crying out loud, Mr Rowling had opened the door and the old brass hinges creaked and screamed bringing the conversations that were being had in the bar on the other side of the door to a complete stop.
6
A room filled heavy with smoke, the stale smell of beer stung Simon’s eyes and clung to his clothes like brambles. Many were the men that laboured over their drinks but on the sound of the creaking door turned to face Simon. Eyes from many men looked at Simon; they burrowed deep into him like a curious rabbit seeking a carrot in a mine field. They scanned him, appraised Simon as if he were a trinket found in the attic of a long dead relative. His throat became dry, a barren wasteland full of needles that stabbed him when he swallowed. He was stood there for what seemed like hours, looking from his left to his right, his body swimming weightless in a sea full of human sharks. Mr Rowling entered his field of vision he stepped forward and headed toward the bar all the eyes followed him as he went.