by Gerald Wixey
***
The next morning when I passed Wyn’s table. He lowered his Daily Telegraph, leant across and said, ‘Stuart young man, have a chair, sit down.’ He poured me a coffee and slid it across the short distance between us, gazed into my eyes and said, ‘Always be nice to the little ladies. That lot in the bar might think I’m a smarmy so-and-so, but women would prefer to talk to me, rather than some belching, morose drunk, which most of them seem to be.’
But his eyes wandered off elsewhere and he appeared to have lost interest in me. He had become preoccupied with Shirley. Had she had fallen under Wyn’s spell? Tantalised by his magic – or had Shirley made all the running? I never knew, even my timescale of events is vague, but the two had become close within a couple of weeks, certainly before the summer holidays began, and their closeness bothered me. My sense of intuition was indefinite, unlike my old man who took a determinist stance on all issues.
Wyn had disturbed my old man’s morning routine with his self-important swagger into the bar and his pot of coffee. The Telegraph and the Sporting Life under his arm, he’d find a table Shirley had just cleaned and make himself comfortable. My old man grimaced, inhibited by this unwelcome intrusion into his world. But I watched on, hypnotised by it all; I crept around trying to listen – sitting under tables, squatting behind doors – all the time, listening.
Last Friday morning, Shirley had accepted his invitation, sat with him and shared a coffee. Like a crossed rubicon, or a dam breached, an irresistible momentum developed so strong that she sat with Wyn every morning now and they talked. There were occasional long silences, not uncomfortable breaks where they struggled to say something amusing or interesting. Both were completely at ease, staring into each other’s eyes, thinking through all of the possibilities. Sometimes she raised a cautionary eyebrow that suggested; this is silly, and tilted her a head a little at Wyn, isn’t it?
They toasted each other with strong black coffee and hot simmering suggestion.
According to Bernice, mum was a snob to the core, all stylish chic and cigarette holders. All of this was in direct contrast to Shirley’s pleasantly unsophisticated melange of perfume and cigarettes, with gin tossed into the mix in the evening. She had shapely legs and nicely rounded hips, always covered by a dark-coloured, tight skirt. A figure hugging, thin v-neck sweater covered heavy breasts, slender shoulders and all the time a challenging look across her shouted – like what you see?
Adorably blatant, Shirley had blue eyes like ice-covered ponds and a certain way of slowly uncrossing her beautiful legs, then demurely leaning them slightly to one side with knees neatly pressed together. A heavy smoker, when Wyn said something amusing, she laughed and coughed and laughed again.
She smoked, Wyn laughed, dad seethed.
I listened on to my early morning obsession. I didn’t know how old she was; probably not forty; I think she and mum were more or less the same age. Shirley had heard it all before and Wyn, a sly old dog, was over fifty and all over Shirley. They were two experienced crusaders who knew this script by heart, their attraction potent and powerful. I watched as they circled around each other, both laughing and completely at ease, both aware that soon they would be travelling a smooth, well-worn and inexorable road to – where, exactly?
I became filled with a fascinated premonition; something was wrong and this sense of intuition bothered me as I remembered their clips of conversation from earlier in the week.
‘We made a fortune and you vanished off the face of the earth. Pity really, you know me and money – it’s such an aphrodisiac and at my age, I need all the help I can get.’
They both laughed, a relaxing laugh, the sort of laugh that only comes easily between intimate friends. Wyn probed away, ‘It’s Newbury on Friday, fancy an afternoon’s racing? I’ll get you home before hubby’s shouting for his dinner.’
***
I wandered outside and waited for Declan at the end of Crook’s Terrace. It was our last day of school, a cloudless sky; deep azure, no breeze, and a long hot summer holiday awaited us.
I looked across the road towards Joe’s yard where my old man stood, hands on hips for a while, then began waving like a frantic tic-tac man, warning a complacent bookmaker of an impending sting. Joe and my old man were alongside a lorry that vented steam through a leaky radiator. Dad’s voice carried over the short distance back towards me. ‘It’s boiling over and you haven’t got out of the yard yet.’
Joe permitted himself a short, taut smile, not of pleasure exactly; more likely relief as my old man stuck his head under the bonnet and began cursing the ‘bastard engine’.
Declan came out of the alley between the terrace and the pub, squinted up at me. ‘Got any money?’
I ignored his question and we walked up the hill, accompanied by hot, early morning sunshine and a solitary pigeon cooing back at my old man, apparently taking issue with his profanities. Jack overtook us in a short-sleeved shirt and a tie, lighting a cigarette and saying good morning at the same time. He took a drag and then started to whistle – the same tune he whistled every morning; cherry pink and apple blossom white.
Declan shoved his way in front of me and pushed the shop door open. The bell rang, sounding not dissimilar to the one rung between rounds at Madison Square Gardens. Every time my old man heard a bell his hands came up and he started bouncing on the balls of his feet, stick me with a couple of jabs and keep this routine going until I laughed.
Mr Goldstone said a sombre ‘Good morning boys.’ I liked this adult greeting and wondered why my old man’s whispered conversations went through my mind. ‘Is he Jewish?’ Mum smiling, ‘What do you think? Looking like he does and with a name like that.’ I smiled, amused at how much my old man fumed as Mr Goldstone made his pint last the best part of an hour.
He said, ‘Jamboree bag or sherbet flying saucers?’
I ignored the question and considered asking Mr Goldstone what a useless fucker was, decided against it and glanced at Declan; he loved sherbet.
I said, ‘Jamboree bag please Mr. Goldstone.’
I liked his solemn, polite manner; his crisp, spotless white shirt underneath a crisp, spotless khaki overall and the same warning as we left; ‘Careful crossing the road, now.’
I looked right, Declan left, as I stepped off the path he grabbed my hand, ‘Whoa!’
A purring black car swept commandingly up the hill driven by a broad-faced driver wearing a check jacket and silk cravat. A blonde passenger gazed at the driver, a sensuous smile and a certain look on her face.
Where are they going?
Shirley had just asked mum for the rest of the day off. I caught the tail end of their conversation. For close friends, they had an edgy, strained chat. They stopped when I came in. There were long periods of eye contact, mum’s look sending a warning Shirley’s way – do you know what you’re doing?
Shirley for once, appeared uncertain and a bewildered expression rebounded back towards mum – probably not.
I nudged Declan and said it again, ‘I wonder where they’re going?’
Declan ignored me, one finger up his nose and greedy eyes fixed on my Jamboree bag. I ripped it open, crossing the road and excitedly looking into the bag. In amongst the sweets was a pink plastic nose – brilliant, it would go nicely with the black plastic moustache that came in yesterday’s bag.
We stopped and I sorted the dolly mixtures out and gave them to Declan. I half expected him to slobber like the dog. He stared at the sweets standing out like frogs in a sand pit in the middle of his grubby palm. Declan’s chin moving as he silently counted them. He took a deep breath and then, satisfied, he gobbled them swiftly.
We chewed our way to the school gates and all day I wondered where my uncle was taking Shirley.
***
That evening, I sat under the apple tree. The sun had swung past the end of the terrace and the whole garden was gently bathed in a golden evening glow from a midsummer sun. Swallows flew hig
h in the warm air and the dog, ever the opportunist, decided it a favourable moment to hunt basking cats. I watched him having trouble dislodging a stubborn cat from off the top of the wall, and my gaze went across to Ron.
I wondered if he knew that Wyn had taken Shirley out for the day. Probably not, looking at the way he smiled away to himself. But then, he’d had five pints by now and he always felt comfortable on his well-tended patch. I thought about his religions; in descending order they were pints of bitter, his allotment, righteous indignation and revenge. Ron had a bubbling resentment of heroic proportions and a thirst to match.
The beer that slid so easily down his throat soothed the fires of bitterness within somewhat. But not his perceived injustices however, that and his constant mumbling about retribution, I’ll fix him.
Reprisal kept Ron going like Vitamin C did the rest of us.
He noticed the dog strolling his way and watched him as vigilantly as you would a Louisiana pine snake curled up in a toilet bowl. But Dudley knew the boundaries, casually leaning against the fence and pissing through the wrought iron railings and, with uncanny precision, hitting the edge of Ron’s shallots. The dog glanced across at him, what are you going to do about that?
I heard the hurried step across gravel, tried to imagine who had such a business-like tread – Jack, Joe? Neither, just Kenny hurrying across the car park, head down, moving quickly. He climbed the fence and marched up to Ron. Mr Indignant talks to Master Incensed. I couldn’t hear properly but Kenny waved his arms a lot. Ron shrugged. Kenny said something else. Ron started to wag his finger under Kenny’s nose.
I heard, ‘Keep your mouth shut.’
Then, ‘Why don’t you do something about it?’
They stared at each other for a long time. Ron held the hoe like a pike-man facing an advancing French army, the smooth rounded handle under Kenny’s chin. Finally I heard, ‘Well, if you won’t.’
Kenny broke away, climbed the fence and stormed past me, no time for even a snarl in my direction.
He didn’t even hear my, ‘Hello Ken.’
Good job really, he punched on sight if someone called him Ken. He marched on up the steps and in through the back door. I jumped up and trotted after him, waited on the step and listened.
‘Do you know where she is?’
I visualised mum’s expressionless features. A no panic – don’t worry look about her. I heard the calm voice, ‘I think she’s back soon, I thought she said eightish. Don’t look so worried – she won’t be long.’
I didn’t think Kenny did worry, in fact, it wasn’t concern at all. Just anger, a raging impotent anger directed at the world and whoever else happened to be in striking distance. In this instance, me. He came bursting out, dropped his shoulder into my chest and knocked me over and off the step. Dudley snarled and went for him. I called the dog back, ‘No! Come here – it’s okay.’
Mum came out, concern across her face, ‘Are you all right? What happened?’
‘Nothing, slipped off the step.’ I held her doubtful gaze – honest. Then I nodded after Kenny, ‘What’s up with him?’
She shook her head, a sad glance back towards me, ‘I don’t think he’s…’ Mum followed him, her features remarkably impassive once more. ‘Just stay out of his way, he’ll calm down – what’s up with the dog?’
She stared at the dog as she spoke. Dudley’s top lip raised enough to show his imposing top set, his hackles well up. I stroked his back. His tail wagged a little, but his eyes followed Kenny all the way down the hill. He growled softly, like a powerful engine idling away, waiting for someone to press the accelerator.
You had to be impressed, I said, ‘Just doing his job.’
***
After breakfast the next day, Wyn glanced up from his newspaper as my old man raged away at him.
‘You’re a stupid…’
Wyn cringed at my old man’s crudeness, defending himself with a calm rationale, ‘Harry, relax. We only went racing, had a couple of glasses of bubbly over lunch. A few drinks afterwards – there’s nothing going on.’
He reflected honesty, but even I knew he was lying.
***
The next morning, we coaxed my old man out early, leaving him free to relax in the afternoon’s heat. Before the game of football started, I spotted the dog wandering past the end of the low wall that formed one side of the car park entrance. On market day he’d sit midway between the fish stall and the condemned meat man, generating endless swathes of saliva. Dudley only wandered home after they packed up for the day, but it wasn’t market day and he’d probably been spending some quality time with Mr. Goldstone’s poodle bitch. I imagined Mr Goldstone’s unconcerned, oh don’t worry, he’s really no bother – don’t forget, she’s been spayed.
Dudley stood by the car and stared across at us, tail sweeping and head cocked over, let me in please. More than his auxiliary kennel, it had become Dudley’s paradise and the only thing – apart from me – that he was possessive about. My old man thought he would defend both to the death. Events soon proved him right.
Whatever the weather, Dudley sat in the car. On a hot day, we’d leave the doors open for him. On a cool morning like today, just the windows. Paradise, where he sometimes watched the world go by, but mostly he slept – sometimes he spent the night out there. I’d let him out in the morning and, unconcerned, he’d cock his leg against the front wheel and piss forever, beaming away at me – forget me by any chance?
I opened the door and the dog jumped in, did a couple of pirouettes and lay down, stared up at me – and why shouldn’t I, I’ve had a busy morning.
I shut the car door as my old man took a deep breath and beckoned us on. The ball became an irrelevance, as we climbed all over him and he bunted us around the car park with his generous buttocks. This went on for a frenzied few minutes until a familiar sound crunched over the gravel and pulled us up. It was Ron, accompanied by shallow, wheezing breathing that suggested immediate collapse. The short climb up Grove Street had resulted in him leaning against the car dragging air into his lungs. Mum said he had recently started to chain smoke.
‘Harry.’ Ron wheezed across, ‘Some strawberries for you.’
Shirley probably had to beat him over the head to send this small offering up the road. Ron, mean in both spirit and actions would never give anything away, whereas she had a natural feel for the politics of interaction. Shirley would be well aware that the my old man’s strawberry harvest failed again; a product of a swarm of voracious eleven year olds, it didn’t take a genius to work out which one of us my old man caught. Declan went home with strawberry coloured lips and a similarly coloured thick ear.
‘I’ve had a good crop this year, Harry.’ Ron’s weasel eyes snaked over at dad; a rare moment in the sun and he intended to make the most of it. Then he made a mistake, ‘I’ll put them in the car – it’s shady in there.’
My old man’s eyes lit up, his competitive nature extended to gardening; dad saw an opening for instant payback. ‘If you must.’ He had the look of an overfed wolf about him.
I panicked. ‘No.’ I shouted to my old man, ‘What about the…’
‘Shut up.’ He snapped it back my way like a crisp uppercut.
Ron leant into the open car window with the strawberries. Dudley’s hellhound head burst out from inside and his great snarling mouth clamped onto Ron’s cheek, deflating it like a cycle tyre with a hissing puncture. My old man just stared deadpan at the screaming man, and said nothing.
I shouted, ‘Leave Dudley – leave.’
The dog’s response was immediate and he let go, just growled and stared. My old man said nothing. I expected him to growl, but like the dog, he just stared as well.
Strawberries went everywhere, like red hailstones, and Ron held onto his bleeding face and shouted and hopped and kept saying ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’, over and over. His hand clamped over his mouth and cheek so that ‘fuck’ sounded a bit like ‘fmuck, fmuck’
. Ron’s hand was in such a position that he looked not unlike a man playing the harmonica. Finally he said, ‘I’ll have that fmucking thing put down within a week.’
Ron did his worst, went up to the police station and Don was down within the hour. Don strutted over and couldn’t wait to pull his notebook out. He took our brief statements with a wicked sneer on his face throughout.
‘Expect the worst.’ He looked at the dog as it walked past Don on the way out of the back door; Dudley looked back and growled.
Don gave it that certain look, I’d shoot the mangy thing right now, brought his eyes back to me and said, ‘You’ll hear from the magistrates pretty soon.’
Then he just sat there. Eventually mum said, ‘Do you want a coffee or a pint?’
Don smiled at mum, gave her his you’re such a gorgeous looking woman look and said, ‘Pint would be lovely, Peggy.’
He flashed a stare across at my old man who sent it straight back with spades on it. I left them to it and went into the garden. Dudley was suddenly on death row and I blamed my old man.
I turned and walked over to my uncle camped in his customary afternoon spot.
‘My boy, what’s up, is something wrong?’ Wyn sat in the deck chair under the apple tree, the dog had laid down alongside him. He pushed his straw hat back, took his eyes away from the afternoon card at Doncaster, looked up at me over the top of his reading glasses and lowered his paper. ‘Pull a chair up – fancy a coffee?’
I told him what had happened, finding it more and more difficult to look at his concern, he had sincerity in olympic-sized proportions. ‘Don’t worry, young man.’ Uncle Wyn, stood up and began to rub my shoulders; he had a masterful technique. ‘The dog’s doing his job. Don’t worry, the magistrates will listen to reason, as long as your father doesn’t start swearing at them.’
‘I won’t swear at anyone.’ My old man had joined us. Wyn smiled at me, we never believed that one, even dad appeared unconvinced.