God love us, step into a bloody puddle, dirty filthy water and dogs’ pish gets over the tops of your shoes soaking your socks and feet and you can’t even shout fuck. Ach I’m really sick of it all. Must get a job, this would never have happened if I could of afforded a bus. What a life. Oh man man this is really bad. I’ll be squelching and sliding in my shoes all day now. Wonder how far it is to Blackfriars?
‘Excuse me passer-by, how far is . . .’ The girl walked on hurriedly. Jesus you’d think I was going to rape her or something. What a look, an honest simple question. Wish I knew what was with some people. Wonder how long it takes to cross this road. Man, look at this face. God love us. Imagine having one like that. Course he’ll have money though – that’s the difference. I’d take his face in a minute, if his money went with it. Ah the poor old bastard, probably got a heavy mortgage – overdrawn at the bank – wife pregnant for the seventeenth time and every one a mongol.
‘I’m sorry mister,’ he shouted aloud, the man, hearing the call, turned back.
‘What?’ asked the man.
‘Harry. I’m Harry, oh sorry I thought you were Mr Jackson.’
‘What?’ asked the man, evidently wondering what it was all about.
‘OK? Sorry about that.’ Charles began edging away, the man was still standing.
Ah well that’ll teach me. Should of asked him for a light there. But – this nice-looking chick will do fine.
‘Excuse . . .’ too late, the girl was halfway down the road.
Charming. You’d think my fly was open with the business hanging out, I mean man, just running away like that it’s enough to make me go bent or something. Oh quick.
‘Hey mister, have you a light please?’
‘Yes son.’
‘Thanks a lot. Thanks. Ta. Thanks an awful.’
‘That’s OK son.’
So grateful I nearly kissed him there.
Charles inhaled deeply and immediately burst into a fit of uncontrollable coughing, causing looks of concern from one or two onlookers. He spat. The catarrh was so green and thick it bounced off the ground.
‘My goodness!’ cried the gathering crowd in unison.
Jesus Christ this is disgusting, I’ll have to see a doctor. Imagine dying of cancer at twenty-three it would make you sick. Old Grandpa died of cancer. Course he had a good long life, no complaints there. But twenty-three? Malnutrition probably has something to do with it. Hey look at her man, what a coupon, legs like a billiard table. I bet even she’d knock me back.
Have to pack this existence in. Start looking for a job tomorrow after I get paid, may even do a moonlight tomorrow night. Hope I don’t see John though, course the old bastard knows I see the NAB man on Thursdays. Ah shite, who cares. Charles noticed an amusement arcade not far from Blackfriars Bridge, he flipped a coin and entered. Ah the dog machine, wonder what to back. Hey how come I’m the only punter in here, must be crooked or something. Never mind I’ll try the red dog – only evens of course but still, if I can do a three timer I’ll have a tanner then try the slots and the sky’s the limit. Right. They’re off Park Royal running 3.36, it’s six from two, three, one and four. On the one dog. Round the bottom bend it’s three going on from two, four one – round the final bend it’s three going two lengths clear of two. On the one dog. Go on my son. Ah bastard. Always the same when you’re skint. A ½d. left. What a big-time dog player.
Charles walked over the bridge, stopping about halfway across to gaze upriver.
Wonder what it’d be like falling in, probably wake up in a lovely clean and warm hospital bed with a luscious nurse leaning anxiously over me. Big tits nudging my ears, saying things like ‘Would you like a mug of steaming, piping hot coffee, liberally laced with black rum. Also a Player’s?’
‘Well thank you, wouldn’t say no.’
Oh why bother. Come on God, I’m only asking for half a crown. Please make that man in front deaf and blind then let him drop two and six. I promise to take his name and address and send it on to him later.
The rain started falling heavily.
‘Who cares,’ he shouted waving his fist upwards. ‘Who cares anyway eh? My feet are soaking already ha ha ha.’
He knew him well
The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places – pubs. Drank in here for near enough thirty years.’ He paused shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Jim. Night Jim. Been in the navy. Yes he’d been in the navy all right. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight his dead cigarette. ‘Only survivor too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered around the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.
‘Slate,’ said the old guy, ‘pay him pension day.’ He smiled. ‘Not supposed to drink this, says it’s bad for me gut – the doctor.’
‘Yeah?’ I said.
‘Oh, yeah,’ he nodded, ‘yes, said it would kill me if I weren’t careful,’ looking at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘Seventy-two I am, know that. Kill me! Ha! Bloody idiot.’
‘Did you like old Jim though?’ I asked.
‘Well never really knew him did I? I would’ve though. Yes, I would’ve liked old Jim if we’d spoke. But we never talked much, him and I. Not really.’ He paused for a sip, continued, ‘Knew his brother though – a couple of years older than Jim I think. And a real villain he was. Had a nice wife. I used to do the racetracks then and sometimes met Bert there.’ The old man stopped again, carefully extracting the long dead roll-up from between his lips and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. He took out his tobacco tin and rolled another. ‘Yeah old Bert.’ He lit up. ‘He was a villain. Used to tell me a few things – yes he did know horses and made a good living. Never came in here except to see old Jim.’
‘How did they get on together?’ I asked.
‘Old Jim and Bert?’ He scratched his head. ‘Well. Don’t know. Didn’t say much to each other. Some brothers don’t you know,’ he was looking over his glasses at me, ‘no they’d usually just sit drinking, sometimes laughing. Not talking though. Not much anyway, probably said everything I suppose. Course maybe Jim would ask after Bert’s wife and kids or something.’
‘Was old Jim never married then?’ I asked.
‘Maybe he was. Couldn’t really say, Guvnor’d tell you.’
‘Who, him?’ I pointed over to the bartender.
‘What, him! Ha.’ The old guy snorted into his drink, ‘Guvnor’d? He would like that. Bloody guvnor. No his brother-in-law old Jack Moore’s the guvnor but he’s been laid up now for over a year. Broke his leg and it’s never healed up, not properly. Him!’ He pointed over to the bar, ‘Slag thinks he’ll get this place if Jackie packs it in,’ the old man’s voice was beginning to rise in excitement. ‘No chance, no bloody chance of that. Even his sister hates his guts.’ He was speaking rather loudly now and I looked to see if the bartender was loitering but he seemed engrossed in cleaning the counter. The old man noticed my concern and leaned across the table. ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ he spoke quietly, ‘he hears me alright but he won’t let on. Bloody slag. What was I saying though? Old Jim, yes he could drink. Scotch he liked. Drank it all the time. Don’t care much for it myself. A drop of rum now and then. That does me.’ He paused to roll another cigarette. ‘He used to play football. Palace I think or maybe the Orient. Course he was getting on when the war began, just about ready to pack it in then and he never went back afterwards as he lost his arm.’
‘Was that in the war?’
‘Yes, when he was torpedoed,’ the old man was silent for nearl
y two minutes, puffing at his roll-up between sips of the black rum I’d got him. ‘Funny he should have waited so long to do it. Nearly seventy, course maybe his arm had something to do with it.’ He scratched his head and said, ‘Course they talk in this place. Wouldn’t if Jackie was here though. No. Not bloody likely they wouldn’t,’ he sucked his plastic teeth, ‘no not if Jackie was here behind the bar.’ He inhaled very deeply. ‘Where’d you find him then . . . I mean what like was he when,’ the old man stopped and finished his drinks.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘just like it said in the papers. I was a bit worried ’cause I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days so I went along and banged his door. No answer, so I went off to the Library to see if I could see him there.’
‘The Library?’ the old man looked puzzled.
‘Yeah, old Jim used to go up before opening time nearly every day.’
‘Yes expect he would,’ said the old man, ‘now I think on it.’
‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I got back about half five and saw the landlady. She was worried so I said did she want me to force the door. She said if I thought so I broke the door in and he was lying there, on the bed. The landlady saw him too before I could stop her. Throat sliced open. Doctor said he couldn’t have eaten for over a week.’
‘Bloody fool,’ the old man sighed, ‘he should’ve ate. That’s one thing you should do is eat. I eat every day. Yes, make sure of that. Well you’ve got to. Plate of soup’s good you know.’
I had ordered two drinks just on the last bell, we stayed silent, smoking and drinking until I finished and rose and said to him, ‘Well old man I’m off. See you again.’
‘Yes,’ he said staring into his glass shaking his head, ‘old Jim should’ve ate eh!’
The Last Night
When Pete arrived home, well after midnight, the camp was in complete darkness. Fortunately the long dry spell had made the walk across the field comparatively safe. During the earlier part of the month the field had been reduced to a swamp and Pete had had to remove his socks, if he was wearing any, when crossing. One night when drunk, he had fallen full length into a cowbog and had to have a fully clothed shower afterwards.
The gate creaked as he closed it behind him. He walked noiselessly to his tent and fumbled around inside for his toilet bag and towel. He still felt rather pissed, a shower would freshen him up. A transistor sounded out from a nearby tent. As he walked to the washroom he hummed along with the singer.
There were two shower cubicles and each had a sixpenny slot attached to the door. However Pete had a steel comb which he surreptitiously used to force the lock when no one was around. He decided to brush his teeth first and as he squeezed the paste onto the toothbrush the door opened.
He watched in the mirror.
‘Hullo there,’ he said, vaguely recognizing one of the holidaymakers, a lad of about eighteen.
‘Hullo,’ replied the youth, ‘didn’t think there’d be anyone about.’ He had a towel round his shoulders.
‘Oh, I just got back,’ grinned Pete into the mirror.
‘Have you?’ he asked enviously, ‘Were you in St Helier?’
‘Yeah, I was in over the weekend. Drank too much as usual. Pubs are too good in this place.’
Pete began brushing his teeth.
‘Too hot to sleep,’ said the youth, ‘I was going to have a swim.’
‘Christ Almighty!’ Pete spat into the basin. ‘You kidding?’
‘No! I was in last night.’
‘But the pool’s covered with drowned flies.’
‘I never noticed.’
‘Must be crackers man.’ Pete rinsed his mouth. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’m going for a shower, a hot one.’
Pete walked to the cubicle door.
‘Now don’t watch,’ he said, pulling out his steel comb.
The youth smiled as Pete inserted it in between the lock and the door.
‘Do you do that too?’ he asked.
‘What! It was me who started it son. Holidaymakers should have more respect.’ He grinned.
‘Imagine charging sixpence for a shower though.’
‘Yeah it’s pretty stiff. What’s your name?’
‘Dave, Dave.’
‘Well, I’m Pete. See you later.’ He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Dave heard the tap being turned on as he left the washroom. The moon cast light over the campsite now, and the stars were glittering.
He opened the small gate leading to the pool. There were no flies as far as he could see. Throwing off his jumper and jeans he took a deep breath and plunged straight in. The water was colder than the previous night. He swam two lengths before jumping out shivering. Collecting his clothes and towel, he ran back to the washroom to dry.
Pete was combing his hair when he entered. Cold beads of water stood out on the boy’s goose-pimpled body.
‘Christ Almighty! Don’t shake near me man.’
‘Fresh and invigorating,’ laughed Dave, ‘very healthy.’
‘Crackers, I wouldn’t swim in there in the middle of a heatwave.’
‘Why not?’ asked Dave rubbing himself down.
‘It’s not been cleaned for two months. Can you imagine all those kids in there peeing and throwing lumps of mud about. And what about the drowned flies for God’s sake.’
Pete pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
‘Here,’ he offered the packet.
Dave accepted one and finished dressing.
‘How long you been here Dave?’
‘Almost two weeks. Go back day after tomorrow.’
‘Like it?’ asked Pete sitting himself on the washhand basin.
‘Not bad. Saw nearly everything. Went to the old German hospital yesterday and we went around the island again today.’
‘More than I’ve done in four months.’
‘Four months?’ echoed Dave.
‘Yeah, I’m doing the season. My fourth,’ he added.
‘Lucky man,’ murmured Dave.
‘Yeah, it’s a good place this.’
‘Is the old Irishman with you?’
‘Old Patrick?’ Pete smiled, ‘he isn’t with anybody.’
‘What do you do to live?’
‘Oh picking. Potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, roses.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Pick anything at all. Even noses.’
He jumped down from the basin.
‘Anyway Dave I start work in approximately six hours.’ He opened the door, ‘See you tomorrow if you’re around.’
At 7.15 a.m. Pete wearily stretched out an arm from the sleeping bag and switched off the alarm. He dragged himself out, pulled on his patched jeans and tee shirt then slipped into his sandals. The farmer’s boy had left the carton of milk under the outside flap. Even this early in the morning the temperature was soaring near 70°F. Pete drank half and hid the remainder in the long damp grass near his tent to stay fresh, covered by a polythene bag to ward off insects.
One or two campers were already up, the men out for a bit of peace before the children took over. The washroom was busy and Pete had to queue for an empty basin. Come August and it would be like Portobello Road on a Saturday afternoon. Some of the men were talking to each other, gingerly using christian names.
Pete was allowed a basin by one of the men before his turn. He was accorded some respect because of his status as a seasonal worker.
Among the hundred or so people camping on the site there were only two working the season. The previous year there had been eight but this season only Pete had returned with the old Irishman. Patrick had first come during the late fifties for some mysterious reason. Pete had guessed at tax problems but he was a close man and gave no clue whatsoever. He had come back every year since then only returning to Sligo every Christmas to visit his family and hand in all his money. Pete had come four seasons ago and had no fixed plans. He was twenty-four now and returned to London for four months each year. It was becoming more of a wrench to leave Jersey with every winter.
However he had no fixed plans.
Patrick and he had remained close friends after sharing a pot of vegetable soup for four days when both men were without money or work at the beginning of Pete’s second season.
As Pete washed his face he was aware of a heavy smell drifting from the cubicles. Noticing two or three holidaymakers with wrinkled noses looking self-consciously about the room, he smiled inwardly.
A door clanged shut and old Patrick appeared, book in one hand. The other held his stomach.
‘Ah Jasus me guts.’ He shook his head mournfully as he crossed the damp floor.
‘You’re late,’ said Pete who was drying his neck.
‘Twenty-five minutes in the shit house? No bloody wonder boy.’ The old man stopped, ‘Where’ve you been the last couple o’ days?’
‘In town.’
‘Boy,’ said Patrick, ‘you’ll have no chopper left if you don’t slow down.’ Pete smiled following him from the washroom. The sun was streaming down. Old Patrick pulled his ancient bunnet down over his red, gnarled face.
‘Good Christ what a heat. Blind a man,’ he muttered as they walked to their tents.
‘Could have done well last night if you’d been in,’ he continued. ‘Plenty tourists about.’
‘I’ll be in tonight,’ said Pete, ‘although I’m pretty broke.’
‘Did you get a bit when you were in?’
Pete shrugged, ‘I’m saying nothing.’
The old Irishman snorted.
‘Don’t want to get you all worked up man,’ Pete said. ‘You might rape a cow or something.’
‘Ha!’ cried Patrick, ‘don’t worry about me boy. I don’t go short. Don’t worry about that.’ Pete burst into laughter and flicked his towel at him.
‘See you later you lying old bastard,’ he shouted.
‘Aye,’ called Patrick as they parted, ‘and you’d better bring some money ’cause I’m buying you nothing.’
They worked on different farms. Patrick drove a tractor for John Fasquelle down at St Martin and Pete worked near Grouville for Freddie Coffier. He cycled the three miles there and back on a ramshackle bicycle Coffier had given him. He was a good boss and Pete made his own hours, normally working from eight until five unless they were exceptionally busy. He was paid 6/6 an hour tax free and the farmer paid all his insurance.
An Old Pub Near the Angel Page 3