‘What’s that Jock?’
‘The Thistle man, the old Partick Thistle, they were relegated last season.’
‘Ah, Scotch team eh! Don’t pay much heed.’
‘Yeh, you’re right and all. Not much good up there.’
‘Bloody Celtic and Rangers,’ he shook his head in disgust. ‘Get them in here sometimes. And the bloody Irish. Mostly go down Kings Cross they do. Bloody trouble they cause eh?’
‘Give us another of these Dimples.’
‘Yeh,’ He smiled awkwardly, ‘Like them do you?’ He pursed his lips.
Charles got it and returned to his table near the wall, and sat quietly for about five minutes. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted.
The bartender had regained his former position beneath the television set. He gave no indication of having heard.
‘HOY!’
The old fellow jumped and turned angrily. ‘What’s up then? What’s this bleeding hoy all the time eh?’
‘Well you’re a bit deaf for Christ sake.’
‘No need to bloody scream like that though.’
‘Alright alright, sorry. Look, I’m just going to go out for a paper a minute. Keep your eye on my drink eh?’
The bartender began muttering then started to polish glasses.
Charles had to visit three newsagents before obtaining a copy of the Sporting Life. Nothing else could possibly do with all that back money lying about. When he returned to the pub he noticed another customer sitting at a table facing him, just at the corner of the room. She was around ninety years of age.
‘Morning,’ called Charles. ‘Good morning missus.’
The old lady was sucking her gums and smiled across at him, then she looked up at the bartender. ‘Goshtorafokelch,’ she said.
The bartender looked from her to Charles and back again before replying, ‘Yeh, I’ll say eh?’
Bejasus thank God I’ve got a paper to read. This must be an old folk’s home in disguise. He quickly swallowed the remains of the whisky and then the remains of the beer. ‘Hoy!’ he shouted. ‘What time is it? I mean is that the right time there or what?’
The bartender frowned and then said, ‘Must be after twelve I reckon eh?’
Charles got up and carried the empties across. ‘Think I’ll be going,’ he said.
‘You please yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Going to another shop are you eh?’
‘No, it’s not that man, I’ve just got to go home, get a bath and that.’
‘Will you be back then eh?’
‘Well, not today. Maybe tonight though, but if not I’ll definitely be back sometime.’
‘Ah – who cares eh?’ The bartender poured himself a gin then said, ‘Want a short do you eh?’
‘WHAT?’
‘Another short, one of them.’ He pointed at the dusty Dimple Haig. ‘Bleeding thing’s been there for years,’ he said and poured a fair sized measure out. ‘Yeh, glad to get rid of it eh?’
Charles took the tumbler and looked at it. The bartender watched him drink some and asked, ‘You really like it then eh Jock?’
‘Aye, it’s a good whisky.’
The barman opened a bottle of sweet stout and pushed it across to him. ‘You pass that down to her,’ he said.
‘Right you are.’ Charles walked over to the corner and put it down next to the old woman’s glass. ‘Here you are missus, the landlord sent it.’
She looked up and glanced at him with a smile and a nod of the head. ‘Patsorpooter,’ was what she said.
‘Aye,’ Charles grinned. ‘Fine.’ He went back to the bar to finish the whisky. ‘Okay then,’ he said, ‘that’s me, I’ll be off. And I’ll be back in again, don’t worry about that.’
‘Hm.’ The bartender polished the counter. He moved on to another part of it.
‘Listen,’ called Charles, ‘I’ll be back.’
The ancient fellow was now polishing a large glass and seemed unable to hear for the noise of the cloth on it.
‘I’ll see yous later!’ shouted Charles hopelessly.
He collected the newspaper and cigarettes from the table and made for the door. Christ this is really terrible. Can’t understand what it’s all about. Maybe . . . No, I haven’t a clue. Sooner I’m out the better.
He stopped at where the old lady was sitting. ‘Cheerio missus, I’ll be in next week sometime. Okay?’
She wiped a speck of foam from the tip of her nose. ‘Deef!’ she cried, ‘deef.’ And she burst into laughter. Charles had a quick look round for the bartender but he must have gone through the partition door, so he left immediately.
Ten guitars
They stopped outside the gates to the Nurses’ Home. He could see the night-porter peering through the window trying to identify the girl. The rain pattered relentlessly but not too heavily, down on her umbrella. ‘I better go in,’ she said, with a half smile, staring in at the little porter’s lodge.
‘Thought you were allowed till twelve before the gates were shut?’ he asked.
She shrugged without replying and, shuffling her feet, began humming a song to herself.
‘Come on we’ll walk up the road a bit where there are no spies.’
‘Oh Danny doesn’t bother.’ She had stepped backwards into the shadows, expecting him to follow. The night-porter turned the page of a newspaper with his left hand; he held a tea cup against his cheek with the other. Perhaps she was right. He didn’t appear the least bit interested.
‘Fancy a coffee?’
‘In your flat I suppose!’ she smiled.
‘Well it’s only a room, but it’s warm, and I’ve got a chair.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
He turned his coat collar up before answering. ‘Listen, if you know any cafes still open we’ll go there.’ He could not be bothered. What he did want to say was listen, why don’t you go in or why don’t you come out, I’m getting tired and really, what’s the diff anyway? But she was always having to play little games all the time.
‘I’m only kidding,’ she said.
‘Yeh,’ he smiled. ‘Sorry. Come on then, let’s go and drink coffee, I’m too tired to rape you anyway.’
‘Very funny!’ she laughed briefly.
He had met her at the hospital dance four weeks ago and this was the sixth time they had been out together. Cinema twice. Pub thrice. This evening she hadn’t finished until 8 o’clock so they had dined in an Indian restaurant, had a couple of drinks afterwards and strolled back in the rain. He didn’t find her tremendously attractive but she seemed to quite like him. They had had no sex yet. At the beginning he had attempted to get it going but this was waning and now amounted to little more than jokes and funny remarks on the subject. She was half a head shorter than him, dressed quite well if 6 months behind in style, had short black hair and wore this brown corduroy coat he liked the first times but not so much now. She had a sharp wee upturned nose, was nineteen years old, kissed with sealed lips and came from Bristol.
‘No females allowed in here you know!’ he said, quietly turning the key in the lock of the outside door. ‘Under any circumstances.’
She giggled, gazing up and down the street. ‘I can only stay ten minutes,’ she whispered, peering into the gloomy and musty smelling hallway.
Beckoning her to follow they crept upstairs without switching on any lights. This place was known as a respectable bachelors-only house. It was wholly maintained by an eighty eight year old Italian lady who preferred older, retired if possible, gentlemen. She had only allowed him in through her husband whom he had met playing dominoes in the local pub. ‘Steady boy,’ he told his wife. But it was clean and quiet and during the short while he had been staying he hardly set eyes on another tenant. On another occasion, just after closing-time, somebody had bumped against his door and seemed to fall upstairs. When he investigated whoever it was had vanished. He had concluded that the person was living directly above but could not be sure. The rent was £3.50 a week for this medium sized room containing a
mighty bed which resembled his idea of what an orthopaedic bed must look like. It was shaped like a small but steep hill; four feet high at the top and half that at the bottom. Occasionally he woke up with his feet sticking out over the end and his head about eighteen inches below the pillows. An unusual continental quilt covered it all. The interior of the mattress seemed to be stuffed with potato crisp packets and startling crinkling noises escaped whenever he turned onto his side. It was extremely comfortable! Although there was no running water there was an old marble-topped table of some kind and an enormous jug and basin; underneath the table stood an eidl bucket, and all three vessels plus the battered electric kettle were filled daily with fresh water. There were no cooking facilities. Under no circumstances was cooking allowed in the house, even if he had gone out and bought his own cooker. The landlady was totally opposed to it. At first he would buy things like cheese and cold meat but recently he had discovered tinned frankfurters and boiled eggs. He emptied the frankfurters into the electric kettle and also one or two eggs. Once the water had boiled for three minutes the grub was ready for eating. The only snag was the actual kettle which was a very old model, it had a tiny spout and a really wee opening on top, maybe less than three inches in diameter. This meant he had to spear the frank-furters out individually with a fork which required skill, frequently leaving bits of sausage floating about after; and often the eggs would crack when dropped down onto the kettle bottom which caused the water to become cobwebby from the escaping egg white. Fortunately the flavour of the coffee never seemed all that impaired. He was secretly proud of his ingenuity but was unable to display it to the girl having neither frankfurter nor egg. Still, she did seem pleased to get the chair and the coffee. He switched on the gas-fire.
‘Very quiet,’ she said presently.
‘Haunted.’
She smiled her disbelief.
‘You don’t believe me? There’s things go bump in the night here, I’m telling you.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Okay . . .’ Sitting on the carpet he began twiddling the knobs on the transistor radio. ‘What’s Luxembourg again?’
‘208 metres. If I believed everything you told me I’d go mad or something.’
‘Doesn’t bother me if you’re too nervous to hear.’ He switched off the radio and continued in a low growling kind of stage-voice. ‘One dark winter’s evening just after closing time around the turn of the century, an aged retired navvy was returning home from the boozer . . .’
‘Retired what?’
‘Navvy. And he was still wearing his Wellingtons, returning from the boozer quietly singing this shanty to himself when he opened the front door and climbed the creaky stairs.’ He paused and pointed at the door. ‘Just as he passed that very door on his way up he stopped in terror, at the top he saw this death’s head staring down at him. Well he staggered back letting out this blood curdling scream and went toppling down the stairs banging on that door as he went to his doom.’
‘Did he?’ she said politely.
‘Yeh, really! They say to this day if you climb the stair occasionally just after closing-time you’ll sometimes see a death’s head wearing a pair of Wellington boots. I know it’s hard to believe but there you are.’
She gazed above his head.
‘Too much bloody interference at this time of night,’ he muttered, back with the transistor radio. ‘You want Radio I?’
‘There’s nothing on after seven. I don’t really mind.’ She had begun humming this tune again to herself. Why the hell didn’t she go! Sitting there like Raquel Welch. Anyway if she really did fancy him surely she’d want to kip up with him – at least for the night. Good Christ. And it was nearly 12 o’clock probably. Still, he didn’t have to get up for work in the morning. But what would happen if they locked her out or something? Get chucked out the nurses’ home? And he would get chucked out this place if Arrivederchi Roma found out.
‘Want another coffee?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Well yes or no?’
‘If you’re having one.’
‘I’m not having one but if you want one just go ahead and say so.’
‘I’m not fussy.’
Jesus why didn’t she get up and go? ‘Plenty of books there if you want a read . . .’ He gestured vaguely beneath the bed where a pile of paperbacks was lying.
‘No thanks.’
He ripped a piece of newspaper and stuck it through the grill of the gas-fire to get a light for his cigarette, and said, ‘Did you never smoke?’
‘Yes, quite heavily, but I gave it up last Christmas.’
‘Mmm, good for you. I sometimes . . .’ He lacked the energy to finish the sentence.
‘There’s jobs going in the hospital for storemen and porters,’ she said.
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, and they’re earning good wages. The man you see is a Mister Harvey. They’re desperate for staff.’
Perhaps she was only seeing him in an attempt to recruit him for the position of porter. She had begun humming that song again. He looked at her. ‘What tune’s that again?’
‘Ten guitars. I’ve always liked it. It was only a B side. My big sister had it.’
Wish to Christ she was here just now. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I like the fast numbers myself.’
‘You would,’ she laughed. She actually laughed! What was this? A note of encouragement at long last. What was he supposed to do now? He had not that much desire to start playing around again, too bad on the nerves. Anyway, she didn’t have the brains to drop hints. She didn’t even have the brains to . . .
‘What was that?’ she cried.
‘What?’
‘That noise.’ She stared at the door.
‘Ssh. Might be that old one creeping about, checking up on everybody. If she finds you here I’m right in trouble.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, relieved.
‘You didn’t believe that death’s head twaddle did you!’
‘Of course not – I’m used to you by now.’
What did she mean by that? He stood to his feet and walked to the cupboard to get the alarm clock. He began to wind it up. After setting it down again he stared at the back of her shoulders as she stared at the gas-fire, humming that song to herself. He had to try once more. It was getting ridiculous. Stepping over to her chair he kissed the nape of her neck. She did not move. Her blouse fastened at the back and he unbuttoned the top buttons and fumbled at the hook on her bra.
‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ she asked.
‘Nothing. I’m taking off your blouse, but I’m stuck.’ Then he discovered the catch thing and added, ‘No I’m not.’ He continued on the blouse again and she allowed it to slide off her shoulders and then folded it up and placed it neatly on the carpet. Meanwhile he held both strap ends of the bra. But he had reached this point before in the alley behind the hospital, and on the very first night after the dance he had managed to get his fingertips beneath the rim of her pants. What had been going wrong since? He stepped round the chair to face her. He took both her hands and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Still unsure but almost letting himself believe this could only be it. Then he paused. She unzipped her skirt at the side and walked out of it, and climbed onto the bed and under the quilt. She reached back and slung the bra over the back of the bed.
‘Never seen one of these before,’ she said, indicating the quilt and unaware of his incredulous stare.
‘It’s a continental quilt!’ he answered at last. He was still dazed when he undressed, down to his socks and underpants. He went to switch off the light. She giggled.
‘What’s up?’
‘You! in your socks and skinny legs.’ She laughed again, a bit shrilly.
‘Lucky it’s not a pair of Wellingtons!’ he grinned, nervously, and marched forward.
But he had forgotten to alter the usual going-off time on the alarm clock and it burst out at ten a.m. as normal. Recognising
the severity of the situation he jumped out of bed at once and dressed rapidly. The landlady rose at dawn and would have cleaned and exorcised the rest of the house by this time. Fortunately she wouldn’t come into the room unless the door was open which he had to do first thing upon leaving every day. He told her to hurry up. What a confrontation if the old one burst through the door! ‘Come on,’ he whispered.
She found her pants among the fankle of sheets and quilt at the foot of the bed and quickly slipped them on. Attempting to pull up her tights she toppled onto the bed and giggled.
‘Ssh for Christ sake – she’s got ears like a fucking elephant.’
‘No need to swear.’
‘Sorry, but you better hurry.’
When finally she was ready he went out and then she did, and he closed the door gently. He looked upstairs and downstairs but no sign of the old one. Maybe out shopping or something! He was now standing on the first landing before the hallway. She came behind, clutching her coat and handbag. ‘Got everything?’ he asked.
She nodded, unable to speak.
He walked quickly and opened the outside door and peered up the street and down the street. No one! Grabbing her by the hand he tugged her down the seven steps to the pavement and they strode along the street in the direction opposite the one usually taken by the landlady.
Shortly after midday he returned. They had eaten breakfast then she had gone to get ready for duty, against his wishes. She always took her job very seriously. They had arranged to meet outside the hospital gates at eight that evening and he was really looking forward to it.
He walked upstairs and into his room and almost tripped over his suitcase which was parked right behind the door.
‘Your goods all in there!’ said the landlady, suddenly materializing in the doorway.
‘What!’
‘I’m not silly!’ cried the old one. ‘You had woman in my house last night. I pack in all your goods!’
‘What? No, I didn’t! A woman!’
‘Come on, don’t tell me. I know. I’m not silly!’ She advanced towards him.
‘Not me!’ he protested, backing away.
‘I tell Mister Pernacci no! I say no young man! But no! He say you are nice boy. Steady!’ Her angular nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘This the way you treat us eh?’ She yelled.
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