Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  Finally I said, ‘Sorry – miles away.’ I blinked a couple of times and glanced across to the clock, ‘Tommy… Any minute now I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Harry and your mum are missing all the excitement.’ Jack looked at his beer and hissed long and slow, then said, ‘A holiday in Wyn’s Cornish holiday cottage. When are they coming back?’

  I shrugged, ‘A fortnight or until she’s had enough of my old man’s grizzling – whichever comes first.’

  Jack smiled and went back to studying his beer.

  Mum had the best of both worlds now; she played the piano for a couple of nights a week and never worked behind the bar these days, comfortable knowing things were going well with me and Shirley running the pub. I felt they’d rushed things a bit; the two of us had never worked a weekend together. Unbothered, mum and my old man had taken a fortnight in Wyn’s St. Ives retreat.

  I guessed wrongly, convinced that she’d have to drag dad off kicking and screaming. But he whistled away as he loaded suitcases into the car and even waved as they pulled out of the car park.

  I looked over at Stopcock and said, ‘For your sake, I hope it doesn’t rain.’

  Stopcock Arthur had persuaded them to go in the first place. He glanced quickly over at me, pursed his lips and exhaled mightily, then he said, ‘So do I. It doesn’t get cold down there at this time of year – I told Peggy that. Mind you, it might piss down all fortnight, but at least it won’t be cold.’

  He drained his glass, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and puffed his cheeks out. I smiled, my old man’s first ever holiday and the responsibility for the weather rested on Arthur’s mighty shoulders.

  I said, ‘Don’t worry Stopcock, if it does rain all fortnight, we all know where he’ll put the stick of rock.’

  Arthur tried to smile, but his lips came back and exposed his teeth rather like a whinnying racehorse. He nodded, passed me his empty glass and said, ‘Huh – tell me about it.’

  It was a good night; Brendan’s birthday, and Tommy had gathered the clans. The old boy was eighty-three on Friday and barking louder than ever. They filed in, Kenny bringing a snarl with him. Bernice had lipstick on and a polite and respectful attitude towards me – her employer. Spare me, I preferred it when she spat six inch nails at me.

  Kathy, last in and she had the same suede skirt she wore on that fateful night. I found it a real effort not to climb over the counter and wrap myself around her.

  Later on, I played the piano for a couple of hours. It got so busy that Shirley waved up for reinforcements and Kathy gave her a hand. Two women behind the bar; good job my old man was two hundred and fifty miles away, or he would have had a purple fit.

  When I joined them, Kathy passed me a drying up cloth. ‘We’re running out of pint glasses.’

  I raised my eyebrows and said, ‘You wouldn’t say that to my old man.’ On second thoughts, she probably would. ‘Are you stopping with Shirley tonight?’

  Kathy shook her head, ‘No, going back to Oxford, he’s working tomorrow.’

  ‘When can…’

  ‘I don’t know. Soon, I hope.’

  Those were the only words we had a chance to say to one another; the rest of the night consisted of sneaky little glances and smiles and the occasional brush against one another. Kenny and Kathy left around midnight and we were open until well after two. I climbed into bed like I’d done fifteen rounds. Sorry, Kathy, but as soon as my head hit the pillow I crashed. No time to think about you – I’m sorry, lover.

  ***

  A fearful racket crashed into my deep sleep. Somebody hammered on the back door and began to shout. It merged with my dream for a second or two, until the noise woke me and I fumbled for the alarm clock – Sunday morning, seven thirty and a persistent and frantic knocking, someone shouting and shouting, ‘Hurry the fuck up.’

  I stumbled down the stairs, wrapping my dressing gown around me on the move and shielding my eyes from the bright February gloom as the door opened.

  ‘Tommy – you’ll wake the dead.’

  I always said the right thing.

  I needn’t have worried, he ignored me. Tommy never looked good first thing; white and unshaven, with tired, tired eyes. Almost fifty now, he was thickening around the waist a little, but still had the boyish expression and the fearless appearance. Bleak and silent, he lit a cigarette, his breathing shallow. He stood waiting, looking like a condemned man who’d just finished his last breakfast. In my semi-conscious state, I thought Declan was stood behind Tommy, shaking and snivelling, tears collected on the inside of the thick lenses of his glasses. I did a double take at the empty space behind Tommy.

  ‘What’s up?’ I could only think that something had happened to Kathy. ‘What’s happened?’

  Tommy said, ‘Jesus Stuart, my fucken phone’s up the spout, can I use yours? Me Da’s dead – in his pyjamas as cold as fucken ice.’

  I nearly said ‘thank God for that’, somehow dragged my brain back to last night and how Brendan insisted on getting the first round; ‘I’m ninety two, you know.’

  That was the last thing I remember him saying to me.

  I let him in and got a bottle of Irish and two tumblers; I placed them on the cluttered table and poured one for Tommy and a stiff one for Declan; I was in a dream, one where Declan wouldn’t look at me and I wouldn’t have known what to say to him anyway. An unsympathetic silence hung over the table as snatches of Tommy’s insistent whispering down the phone came our way. Finally there was a rattling slam as the phone dropped back into the cradle.

  Tommy sat down, his hair still jet black and thick. A man of moods, at the same time he could be melancholic, stubborn, violent and funny. Now his lighter shook randomly around a quivering cigarette, a fraught encounter as he wrestled the shakes in a bid to light up. Eventually, success and the whiskey went down and tobacco smoke exited his nose at the same time, an industrial process turning good scotch into smoke. I smiled; Tommy always made me smile. I wondered if I’d ever make him smile again, especially if he knew about me and…

  If Declan had been here, Tommy would have surely snapped at him by now, ‘Off you go now, go and sit with your Ma.’ Declan’s mouth gold-fished open, but Tommy wasn’t about to listen. ‘Off you go.’

  Declan’s glasses still flecked with tears and condensation, he snuffled and shuffled his way to the door. I couldn’t get this image out of my mind. I pushed the glass I’d poured for Declan under Tommy’s chin.

  ‘Not joining me then?’ Tommy’s vacant eyes stared into the glass, occasionally he swilled the contents around. Finally drinking the contents in one, he took a deep breath, he had important things to say. ‘I don’t know when the funeral will be; can we have a few in here afterwards? There won’t be too many of us, what d’you think?’

  I nodded, ‘Of course – you’ll be welcome. Do you want me to tell my old man? He’s bound to ring Wednesday or Thursday.’

  ‘No!’ Tommy shook his head, ‘Leave them be, don’t say a word. Let the miserable bastard have his holiday.’ He looked nervous. Gone was the usual cutthroat sharp anger, the effects of bereavement had made him distant, an abstract Tommy more concerned about organising a wake than cursing at the world. ‘Bernice wants to have a double event, lay the little man to rest alongside his granddad. If we have a bit of food, can I put it on the slate? I’ll settle up soon enough.’

  My mind buzzed away. Tommy had mentioned Declan for the first time in twelve years. This revelation banged away against Tommy’s slate. It never bothered my old man, but it worried me. I shrugged. ‘Talk to Shirley about things, it’s only a bit of food.’

  Sleeping dogs; I didn’t dare ask him if he wanted the booze on a tab as well.

  Tommy rambled on, switching topics, tangents passed in seconds, his eyes were vacant as he talked to the window. Half past eight, four large ones and the shakes had gone. Suddenly he slammed his fist into the table. I jumped along with condiments, whiskey bottle a
nd two cut glass tumblers.

  ‘Jeez, Stu – I have to tell Kathy. I forgot, can you run me into Oxford? They haven’t managed to get the fucken phone connected yet.’ His eyes were preoccupied, there was an irregular ticking in his left cheek. Unable to make his mind up, Tommy looked from his fag to his drink for an eternity, made his mind up and decided to nail the drink, blinked twice and stared at me, well?

  I nodded, ‘I’ll take you – give me half an hour, I have to tell Shirley.’

  ‘Bernice’s coming over to clean up soon.’

  I shook my head, ‘Tell her not to bother. Shirley will step into the breach, I’ll ring her now. Are you going back to tell Bernice?’

  Stupid question.

  ‘No, I’ll wait here.’

  I left him sat alone with the bottle and dialled Shirley’s number. I imagined her answering the phone in a gaping, silky nightdress, sleepy and smelling of bed. Her bright voice sent the opposite message, ‘Morning, master – what’s up? What do you want at this unearthly hour?’

  I said, ‘We have a small crisis.’

  I visualised her eyebrows arching up, what now?

  ***

  I parked in Hart Street. Tommy wanted me to come in with him, but I stayed in the car; the thought of Kathy at this time of the day, at any time of the day and I worried about my self-control – what if I grabbed her? Perhaps Tommy would believe that it was just an act of solace, just comforting an old friend. No, not Tommy, he’d punch me on the back of the head, dead centre between my ears, and tell me to keep my fucken hands to myself. Twenty minutes later, Tommy came out with a tear-streaked Kathy. I told her I was sorry and we had a painful drive back.

  ***

  The wake was a busy, a heaving, mass of drinkers who were friendly and drunk by midday. Every time one of them came up for a drink asking, ‘What are you having Stu?’

  A polite shake of the head, followed by a nice little lie, ‘Thanks, but I’m playing football tonight.’

  The mood lightened with each pint. Awkward, restrained grief was replaced by rampant sentimentalism, and by one o’clock the place bounced and throbbed like a Saturday night. Full of builders, ex- builders and…Kathy. She came through the door dressed in sombre black, a beautifully cut suit. Kathy barely looked at me, she sent a discreet wink; an intimate gesture that made up for the weeks without any physical contact. She made some small talk, how are you? How’s Peggy? How’s their holiday going? Then paid for her drink and went and sat down between Bernice and Declan.

  There, I’d done it again – I’d imagined him sat with his mum and sister.

  Ron and Kenny came in half an hour later, God knows where they’d been. Kenny puffed his pigeon chest out and pushed his money around.

  No thanks, Ken.

  Bridget came up to the bar. There was always the worry that she would give me a mouthful. I couldn’t work her mood out, tearful and yet, at the same time, relaxed by her own uptight standards. With me close by, the constant worry that she would be on a war footing. Far from it today – she ended up behind the bar with me. For the first time in years she was comfortable once again in my company. Her red, tear-stained face had been replaced by an alcoholic redness, she had been alternately tense and relaxed, happy but sad – hysterical at times, it seemed.

  The wake wasn’t even a family affair for her, but they all buoyed her up anyway. After plenty of vodka, she gave me a hand, collecting and washing up and she looked good; black suited her.

  I told her, ‘Black suits you.’

  ‘Thank you, pity about the circumstances.’ She shrugged, smiled briefly and carried on wiping the glasses, tearful again. She stared at me for ages and then said, ‘My boyfriend kicked me into touch Saturday night.’

  What a polite, good-looking, all hale and hearty bloke; Patrick and me hated him. ‘I thought he was a smarmy bastard.’

  ‘Well thank you for that, we were going to get married next year.’ Bridget had a cigarette in her hand, I’d not seen that since our schooldays, ‘He gave me the elbow.’ She smoked and cried, ‘Next year – the bastard!’ She smoked and cried and drank Guinness.

  Well, that explained that, her being angry around me seemed to be a regular occurrence and her tears always made me uncomfortable. They were an unbearable memory jogger – I’d caused this reaction in her a few times. I slipped my arm around her shoulder and said, ‘There’s one in every bottle you know.’

  Her face perplexed into a frown, one of what in every bottle? I said, ‘You know what happens when you drink that stuff.’

  She sniffed, ‘What happens?’

  ‘You got us expelled the last time.’

  She perked up, her eyes blazed and she snapped, ‘Your fault, you bastard.’

  Bridget turned and pushed my arm away.

  My fault? Only in as much as I sneaked four large bottles of Guinness out of the cellar. We were sixteen and Bridget wanted Guinness, if it’s good enough for my dad. Guinness was our celebratory drink of choice at a county athletics meeting; Bridget won the javelin and the sprint double, I won the two-twenty yards. The pair of us were in the clouds, sneaking back to an empty bus, finding the back seat and opening a bottle.

  She teased me, drinking out of the bottle; red-faced and happy, her free hand softly wandered up and down my thigh as she swigged. There was some kissing, her breathing changed; a groan from her, a moan from me. The glimpse of her hazardously awe-inspiring cleavage did it. That, and her hand on my zip – my hands were everywhere. Prudence went out of the window; all that flesh turned me into an unstable pendulum, reeling between uncontrollable lust and shuddering horror.

  I told her to put the bottle down; we were on fire and it blazed away all weekend; we spent most of Sunday together, but like Frank Sinatra said, ‘That’s life, that’s what all the people say…You’re ridin’ high in April, shot down in May.’

  Shot down on Monday, hauled before the headmaster and expelled. The games teacher watched us through the bus window; empty beer bottles and Bridget’s legs around my back.

  ‘Your fault.’ Bridget poked me hard with her middle finger and then necked some more Guinness, ‘Get me drunk and…’ She smiled and said, ‘Expelled became a week’s suspension – we were lucky.’

  ‘All down to Wyn.’

  Bridget’s head canted a touch, what was? ‘My old man rang Wyn, got him on the case. He knew a couple of people on the board of governors, masons and all that. I didn’t even know until a year or so ago. Nobody tells me anything.’

  ‘I never knew either, good old Wyn.’ She smiled again, ‘Mum went mad when I told her.’ Kathy came up to the bar, leant in close and whispered, ‘How is she?’ She nodded towards Bridget at the same time.

  ‘A bit maudlin, a bit drunk.’ I said, ‘How’s Tommy?’ She glanced up, ‘Okay, now that it’s all over.’ Kathy smiled and said, ‘Yes, he’s better now.’ Then a thought, a distant memory of a recent event entered her perception, ‘I need to speak to you, it’s important.’

  I leant towards her and whispered, ‘When they’ve all gone – can’t wait.’

  ‘No, it’s important.’ Kathy frowned and we stared at each other.

  Bridget shook her head, ‘What are you two gossiping about?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I said this too quickly. Bridget glared at Kathy and then screwed my empty crisp packet up and threw it into the bin, wiped her mouth and took a big swig of Guinness, washing the crisps down to settle on top of the half a bottle of vodka already nestling in her foodless stomach.

  I looked around the room and rested my eyes on Declan, sat quietly with Bernice, her arm around him, his chin resting down on his chest. ‘Poor Declan.’ My eyes went down to the floor as I said, ‘Did I used to pick on him?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ A shrug from Kathy, it happens.

  ‘I keep seeing him, I think I’m going mad.’ No dissenting voice came back my way, so I pressed on, ‘I think about Declan and the railway line all the time.’
<
br />   Kathy took her distracted gaze over to Kenny as he came up to the bar. He hissed something in Kathy’s ear and she walked out of the door with him. Bridget watched them all the way and carried on serving. She giggled and spilled the beer, got the prices wrong and dropped the change.

  Shirley came over, looked down her nose towards Bridget and then said, ‘I’ve cleared the food away. I’ll be back about seven. Are you okay to open up?’

  I nodded. Shirley glanced at Bridget again and then gave me an eloquent look, I hope you know what you’re doing. As Shirley went through the front door, Kathy came back in and they exchanged a few words.

  I said to Bridget, ‘Where’s Kenny gone?’

  ‘Not sure, I don’t think things are straightforward for them at the moment.’ Bridget held my stare for a minute, turned away and walked into the middle of the maul. She began singing, I think it was Black Velvet Band; something Irish anyway; Tommy wiped a handkerchief across his eyes.

  She came back, flushed and exultant. I said. ‘You’ve a nice voice.’

  Bridget dismissed me with, ‘I’m pissed.’

  Stopcock waved at me, then shouted across, ‘Master – sing that song about feeling half past eight.’

  Bridget stared at Arthur and then back to me, frowned and said, ‘What?’

  A line from a song I loved; an explanation useless, given the amount of alcohol in the questioner’s bloodstream.

  Kathy said, ‘Off you go master.’ She was back and looking happier, now that misery had gone home, ‘Sing for your supper.’

  I tried to stall, ‘It’s not appropriate – to the occasion, I mean.’

  ‘Get on with it,’ Bridget had gone well past the gloomy stage, becoming pleasantly belligerent. She dragged me out from behind the bar and marched me over to the piano. I sat down and waited. This didn’t seem right; on my song sheet, sober and singing didn’t mix. It didn’t matter though, everyone else was pissed. Realising that things were safe, I looked for Kathy. I needed to sing about love.