Vulgar Things

by Lee Rourke

  I look up. The sky is beginning to blacken, bad weather from the hills of Kent across the estuary. I quicken my step, pulling the straps down on my rucksack to tighten things up. The rain comes quicker than I expect, and it falls heavily. It’s cold and sharp, driving into the earth beside the road.

  because there’s nothing else to do

  It hasn’t changed since I was last here. Why should it? There’s nothing to dictate that sort of thing out here. I’m sure the two men sitting at the bar are the same two men who were sitting at the bar when I was last in here. I look at them again: one of them is, but now he’s with a new companion, he’s sipping his stout slower now. He’s still repeating the same conversations throughout the day. His new drinking buddy nods away like his predecessor once did, though. I’ve often thought that the clientele of such establishments are like the wondrous mechanism of the great white’s mouth: as soon as one tooth is lost another one flips into its place. Pubs like the Lobster Smack are always the same: you can see the younger generation of drinkers growing in the shade of the towering men at the bar, readying themselves for the next old-timer to fall, eager to pick up their stool and take their place.

  I stand at the bar and order a pint of cider with ice. I’m aware people are staring at me. I take a sip of my drink, take my change and walk over to a table by the window. The bar itself is quiet, except for the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt who I’d met in the road. He lifts up his drink to greet me when I look over to him, before resuming his loud conversation with a woman. The rain is hitting the window beside me; it rattles the Essex weatherboard that forms each exterior wall of the pub. I stare into my pint of cider, feeling snug and warm. I figure that I’ll have a couple more, and something to eat, before I speak with the landlord, Mr Buchanan. The cider is cold. I watch as the ice cracks. I can’t imagine Uncle Rey sitting in this pub, it doesn’t seem quite right somehow. I never thought of him as the sort of man who would see out the rest of his days sitting at the bar of his local pub, although he must have frequented it at some point. I mooch about the place, looking for what might have been his favourite table or something, but they all look the same. Then I glance out of the window, through the rain, towards the roofs of some caravans in the distance. Uncle Rey’s caravan isn’t that far from the pub, just a short walk along the sea wall if I remember correctly, towards Thorney Bay, or ‘Dead Man’s Cove’ as he called it. I remember him telling me about the numerous things that would be washed up on the beach there in the bay: unwanted hospital waste, like needles and prosthetic limbs; the odd dead animal; dead swimmers of all ages; plastic from far-off lands. Whatever got lost out at sea would eventually be washed up there.

  I’m sitting with my back to the sea wall, which stretches out behind me to my right, just outside the window. It isn’t far to walk from here. I watch people in the bar; they hardly notice my presence now. They’ve forgotten about me, I’ve already settled into the background. It’s the perfect place to sit, somewhere cosy to settle in for the evening. Apart from the rain lashing down, rattling the weatherboard behind me, all I can hear are the clientele’s murmurs and the odd cackle from the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt. If I concentrate, between the rain hitting the window and their voices disappearing, I can just about decipher what he’s saying to the woman: he’s explaining something to her, something about Southend. Then the sound goes again as the rain hits the window and I concentrate on the movement of his mouth instead, his scabby lips filling in the blanks for me.

  ‘It’s changing over there. It used to be different, Southend … Remember when … No one really went out … The pubs used to be full of National Front, some of them still fucking are … I hated it, you couldn’t move for fear of bumping into some fucking knuckle-scraper, the sights I’ve seen by the Kursaal at kicking-out time, the detritus of human existence, fucking real scum, drunk and angry, sexually frustrated … fucking soulless … Those flats … Houses … All gone now, they took them down in the seventies, I think. But let me tell you, go down Southend now and it’s all cappuccinos and students, even the old Irish pub by the station has changed, it’s a really nice place now, does good food … All gone, they must drink elsewhere, not as bad as the East End though, fucking Dalston’s full of boarding-school dropouts spending Daddy’s cash thinking they’re all new, they’re all individuals when they’re really a bunch of deluded, privileged scumbags dressed up in sequined rags … there’s that bit though, in Southend, there’s always that bit, down by the seafront, you know the bit, where the arcades are, those filthy pubs, at night they’re such seedy little places, the ones with the saggy dancers, fucking filthy pubs they are, all run by London and Eastern European gangsters, they’re always there, hanging around on the doors, looking for trouble, watching the tills … Always that bit, you know the bit? That little bit that spoils everything for everyone else, gives the rest of the town a bad name, some of the characters who drink in, what’s that place? … The Cornucopia, what a fucking shithole, some of the characters in there, the small place, what a wretched excuse of a pub, a wretched, wretched place … Their girls are all on smack … needle marks in their arms as they’re stripping off their Primark best … Who’d go and watch that? Filthy little place, the Cornucopia, and the Forrester’s, when are they going to knock that place down? It needs knocking down that place. But, you know, you don’t have to drink down there, there’s always the nice Irish place by the station, they do well, take care of their beers … and their customers. I was only in there the other day, lovely staff … but fuck … this fucking estuary …’

  More people enter the pub, workers from the refinery and a couple of regulars. I order another cider and ask for the menu. I’m hungry now. The Lobster Smack has become a gastropub since I was last here, it seems. I order the steak, rare, and a bottle of red wine to go with it. I sit back down by the window, trancelike, sipping my drink, watching the group of workers and then looking out of the window from time to time. I finish my drink just as the barmaid arrives with my steak and bottle of house red. I pour myself a glass and tuck into my steak like I haven’t eaten for a week. The steak is cooked just how I like it, tender, oozing natural juices. Halfway through my meal a group of old ladies sit down at the next table. They’re locals, probably in their seventies, maybe older. I wonder why they are here, considering the weather has taken a turn for the worse. I didn’t see or hear a car drop them off, yet they couldn’t have all walked here. It doesn’t take them long to settle and order their drinks and food. They all order steak and gin and tonics. One of the ladies, grey hair all sprayed up, dripping in gold, asks for her steak to be cooked ‘well-done’. She repeats this several times to the barmaid taking the order. As the barmaid walks away from the group, the old lady calls after her: ‘I won’t eat this thing if it’s still alive!’ Her companions laugh in a way that suggests they are all accustomed to her behaviour in public, accepting it as banter. I look at her: she’s showy-Essex, bold as brass, tough-skinned and lippy. I reckon she’s never had a steak cooked any other way.

  I drink my house red, which is surprisingly pleasant, and listen to the ladies. They’re mostly discussing things they’ve read in the tabloids and stuff they’ve seen on TV the previous night. The chatter is led by the lady who insisted that her steak be well-done. It ends abruptly as soon as their food arrives. I watch as the salt is passed around, liberally shaken over their meals. They slowly begin to eat, struggling to cut the meat and to chew, some of them struggling with their knives, holding them incorrectly, others moving the food around on their plates with their forks, before they even start. Suddenly, the lady who wanted her steak well-done shouts out to the barmaid.

  ‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’

  The barmaid dashes over immediately, smiling, although it’s obvious she’s been expecting something like this to happen, as if it’s happened on numerous occasions.

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘This steak is well-done, I can’t cut through it, it’s too tough, a
nd I can’t chew it.’

  ‘You asked for it well-done …’

  ‘But I wanted it tender as well …’

  ‘Have it rare next time, then it’ll be as tender as you like …’

  ‘I don’t want my steak like the bloomin’ French have it.’

  ‘A well-done steak, a really well-done one, like you asked, won’t be tender. You say this to me every time you come in here …’

  ‘Yes, because you always cook my steak too tough …’

  ‘And you always ask for it well-done … Every time, and you always come back at me with the same complaint … I’ve told you about this so many times …’

  ‘It’s too tough …’

  ‘Okay, do you want your money back?’

  ‘No, I want some food I can chew …’

  ‘You say this every time … Every time you come in here.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll eat it. It’s too tough, but I’ll eat it.’

  such a long time

  After the old ladies have gone and I’ve finished my wine I grab my rucksack and walk up to the bar.

  ‘Same again?’

  ‘No, thanks … May I speak to Mr Buchanan, please?’

  ‘He’s over there …’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There, talking to that man …’

  ‘Oh yes, I see him. Thanks.’

  Mr Buchanan is speaking to the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt. The woman is with them too, but she’s drifted off and is staring out of the window as they talk. Mr Buchanan’s a large man, with a thick beard and small-rimmed, round glasses. I walk over to them. The man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt stops their conversation as if some dignitary had just arrived.

  ‘Ah, come and join us. Although I must warn you, we’re as boring as two old fuck-ups can be …’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Mr Buchanan …’

  ‘I know who you are …’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re Rey Michaels’ lad …’

  ‘I’m his nephew, yes …’

  ‘Well, of course …’

  ‘Yes, well …’

  ‘Excuse me …’

  He takes me to the other side of the bar and through a door into the back office. We sit down at his desk. He offers me a whisky, good Scottish stuff, cool as you like. I want to tell him that his actions are just like actions in films I’ve seen – the way he slouches in his chair and pulls the bottle of whisky from a drawer underneath his desk – but I don’t, instead I nod and watch him pour my drink. He hands it to me and I slouch back in my own chair just like him. The whisky burns the back of my throat, it starts a beautiful fire inside me.

  ‘It was sad … What Rey did … I liked him. He was a private man, kept himself to himself … You know, not that many people came to visit. I knew nothing about him, really, only the things he wanted me to know … I liked that about him, I even admired him for it. There’s so much space in this world, yet most of us feel restricted, like there’s no scope for another perspective, trapped in the moment, one to the next … With Rey, it didn’t seem like that, not to me, it seemed like he had all the space he wanted … then, you know, all this … He was a good man, I think, underneath it all …’

  ‘I never really … We didn’t see much of him, I guess …’

  ‘Whatever his problems, you know … Whatever was going on inside his head, in his life for him to do that, you know …’

  ‘I know … It’s hard to imagine …’

  ‘He would come here … He’d sit in the corner, reading a book, something about the stars and the planets, he was into all that … Sometimes he’d talk into his phone, but not like a conversation with someone, just into his phone, like he was recording his own voice … He had all the new gadgets … I don’t know what he was saying, he’d just speak into it, you know, discreetly. Some people thought it was odd behaviour, but I didn’t. I liked it, it kept people in here on their toes, they thought he was talking about them, keeping an eye on them or something, but he wasn’t … but what were they to know, eh? If he wasn’t doing that, he would sit there reading his books, he was always doing that, obsessed with the stars, he was. He has a huge telescope at his caravan they say, did you ever see it?’

  ‘I can’t remember ever having … maybe this is a new thing … I haven’t seen him in such a long time.’

  ‘…’

  ‘…’

  ‘Here … These are the keys … I own the site he lived on, so I have spares.’

  ‘Oh, thanks …’

  ‘Do you know where it is?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘Number 27 … The address is on the key ring. It’s not far … Give me a call if you have any problems.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  ‘Right, I’ll get back to that lot outside.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I walk back into the bar after Mr Buchanan, leaving him to serve the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt another drink. Before I leave I buy four bottles of strong cider. I figure I’ll need more to drink once I’m inside Uncle Rey’s caravan. The barmaid looks at me pitifully as I hand her the money. I shake my head when she offers me the change. I thank her and walk to the door; just as I step out into the cold air, the smell of iodine and salt in my face, I hear Mr Buchanan wish me luck from behind the bar. I turn round to thank him, but it’s too late, the door has already shut behind me.

  caravan 27

  At least it’s stopped raining now. I walk up the grass verge and along the sea wall, with the jetty on my right, in the direction of Thorney Bay. The wind seems warmer walking this way, blowing in from the estuary along the water, up past me, following the oil tankers and container ships as they plod towards Tilbury in the opposite direction. I stop just before I reach the caravan site to watch a large container ship pass by. It takes about ten minutes. The whole of the estuary and its immediate surroundings must be reverberating with me. I wonder what all the fish must make of it? It must affect them, such a tremendous force echoing through the water and the earth below it, all the way down, shaking everything in its wake: my feet, the sea wall, the Lobster Smack, Mr Buchanan, the caravans, the entire island.

  The caravan site is surrounded by a perimeter fence topped with huge, ugly rolls of barbed wire, running its entire length. It looks like a prison yard. The early evening light doesn’t help, and the lack of sufficient street lamps only heightens the all-round miserable mood of the place. I walk down from the sea wall and all the way around it to the main entrance. At first I want to turn back, but then I think of Uncle Rey: what he did, what I have come here to do. So I continue towards the main gate where I can see a small wooden hut with a light on. There’s a shoddy-looking sign on its door: ‘SITE OFFICE’. A man is sitting inside reading a crinkled copy of the Sun. He’s young, younger than me by a mile, but his face seems old: his eyes look like two oyster shells, and his skin is tough-looking, battered and bruised, weathered in all seasons like a fisherman’s. He looks up at me. His face is expressionless; all manner of emotions could be pouring through him for all I know.

  ‘Mr Buchanan’s just phoned. Number 27 is just over there, back towards the sea wall. It faces the wall. The generator is on, you’ll be pleased to know, but you’ll have to pay the ten-pound fee, of course. We’re running it, you see, so that you can use the caravan in comfort.’

  ‘Thanks, here.’

  I pay him the money and leave him to his newspaper, walking out of his office without saying anything else. I can hear him shout something to me, something about ‘contacting’ him ‘should there be any problems’. I shake my head. Why do people always say these things? I make a decision not to use the main gate, if I don’t have to, again. I wave my hand, hoping that he might see this and read it as some kind of acknowledgement. I leave it at that.

  It takes me longer to find Uncle Rey’s caravan than I expected it to. They all look the same, for a start. This, coupled with the fact that many of them aren’t actually numbered, making it diff
icult to determine the layout of the site. In fact, I stumble on Uncle Rey’s caravan by accident, just as I’m about to break my word and walk back to the small hut at the main entrance. It’s a sorry-looking thing and I half wonder how Uncle Rey managed to live in it for so long, pretty much the majority of his adult life. But he had, seemingly choosing this God-awful place deliberately, as if to ridicule himself, or persecute himself, even: a constant reminder to him that his life was meaningless.

  Looking at caravan 27, it makes perfect sense to me: just the way it looks, the way it feels, how it sits there, all dishevelled and broken-looking. Though I didn’t expect it to have been painted dark green, thick with brushstrokes like an oil-painting. Nor did I expect it to have its own fenced-off, scruffy garden area, complete with garden shed. A big shed, too, like a workshop: the sort of shed media types have built in their gardens. It looks incongruous next to the brutal barbed wire on the perimeter fence and sea wall: a proper den of solitude and tranquillity, a man’s castle, where he can retire, sheltered away from the world in peace. I can see Uncle Rey right here, before I even open the door. I can see him pottering about, sitting in his shed, watching the sun set behind the sea wall, looking out through the barbed wire. It feels really odd.