Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  ‘I could tell you about my life, and keep you amused I’m sure

  About all the times I’ve cried, and how I don’t want to be sad anymore.

  And how I wish I was in love.’

  I got a drunken cheer. Time to stop; mum said stop while they’re still clapping you. As I walked past Kathy I whispered ‘Just for you.’

  I kept moving and Bridget watched me strut back behind the bar, ‘What’s all this love stuff, I think you’re about to crack up.’

  Too late – I already have, Bridget.

  Towards the end, Bernice came over, worried and wringing her talons, not even a brief glance in Kathy’s direction. Bernice looked and probably felt isolated whenever she talked to me. She needn’t have, forever accompanied as she was by her usual partners; bitterness and a short fuse. Had she always been like this? Well, her bright red hair and a hard Belfast accent were there from the beginning. But mum’s perception of Bernice differed from mine. She always said that in spite of everything Bernice managed, somehow. The family never starved – that meant ferocious mothering, the monetary skills of a fagan and an ability to fight like a cornered feral cat. They survived, just, and through it all Tommy drank like an aristocrat.

  She lit a Woodbine. I imagined her bony hands being more comfortable choking turkeys than wiping Declan’s tears. Over the years, the denunciations reeled out from her lips in a regular and lengthy monotone, listing our numerous misdemeanours. She stared at her cigarette, then her nails, all edginess and discomfort as she spoke. ‘Thanks – how much?’ Her cigarette bounced between her lips as she opened her purse.

  I found her edgy eyes and sighed, ‘Talk to Shirley, I don’t know what she spent on the food, there’s no rush either way.’ Tommy quickly followed Bernice – he walked the walk, carefully placing his feet. It wouldn’t do to fall over today of all days. He leant across the bar and said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Better thank Shirley, she did all the work.’

  We shook hands and he unsteadily tried to focus on his daughter, ‘Are you coming back now, or what?’

  Kathy shook her head, ‘I won’t be long, I’ll help the useless barman, or it’ll be past opening time before he’s ready to go again.’

  Tommy stared hard at me, keep your fucken hands off. I needn’t have worried; he gave every man that came within a five-yard radius of Kathy that stare. He nodded at me again and then joined the bulk of them grouping at the front door. They left in a bundle of ill-fitting suits and curses, spilling out into Grove Street, an untidy rolling maul.

  ‘Christ!’ I said, ‘It’s a good job the number thirty one bus didn’t go past at that precise moment.’ I imagined a collision of epic proportions, wiping out half of the indigenous builders, labourers and drinking men out at a stroke.

  ‘They were in good form,’ Kathy smiled and followed the unsteady path of flat caps and trilby hats past the window.

  I looked at Bridget and said, ‘Thanks, B – do you want a drink?’

  Bridget shook her head and glanced at Kathy before saying, ‘I’m going too.’ Her quick temper meant that happy or sad, right or wrong, Bridget could be off, ready to go over the top at the smallest of perceived provocations.

  What are you doing now?

  She glared this towards Kathy, who could calm an over-excited border collie with a relaxed wave of the hand. Kathy looked at her watch, a gesture that said, relax – I’m going to behave. ‘I’ll sit on the stool and watch him washing up.’

  She nodded my way as she spoke.

  Bridget said, ‘Behave yourself then.’

  Who was that directed at? Me or Kathy? Perhaps both of us. She swept out and I locked the door. Kathy’s eyebrows sent a question towards me, how have you been?

  I said, ‘I’ve missed you. I’m going to have a quick one, five hours of saying no thanks makes Stuart a desperate boy. Do you want one?’

  Her usual look, empty glass pushed towards me, is the pope catholic?

  I nodded, pulled a pint and placed it on the bar, staring into its frothiness. Two pints at this time of day and I had to sleep. I downed the first one in seconds and pulled the second. I said, ‘I’ll have to set the alarm.’ Kathy looked quizzically in my direction. ‘It sends me to sleep, if I have one in the afternoon.’

  ‘You’re having two?’

  I nodded, ‘That’s what I meant when I said I’ll have to set the alarm, going to come up and tuck me in.’

  I got the, is the pope catholic look again. Kathy took my hand and walked me straight up the stairs, past the sitting room and along the landing towards my bedroom. Hope grew, realisation dawned and an erection developed with every step. My god! Don’t stop Kathy, don’t fall at the last. We came racing along the home straight together, neck and neck, past the grand stand – please don’t stop – on and on past the winning post and into the unsaddling enclosure.

  I put my arms inside her jacket and around her waist and we pushed hard against each other. We kissed; she had the same hunger and I fed off it. I slipped her jacket off and she had her blouse and tights off in seconds. I was under the sheets and under Kathy, tantalized by her breasts’ slight and irregular movement.

  ‘C’mon Stu, come to Kathy.’ She relaxed with me inside her and we went about it; leisurely and patiently and unselfishly. She came and I still watched her breasts, underneath me by now, with her hands and long nails exploring my buttocks. Telling me to ride her all the way home – Go for it, Stu – and I did. All the time she cajoled and urged.

  She turned on her side and I pushed against her, my arm around her, hand around her breast, and I started to close my eyes.

  ‘Stu, I’ve had a bad two weeks – are you listening?’

  I grunted, my eyelids so heavy; gravity an overwhelming force dragging them relentlessly down. I said, ‘When can I see you again?’

  ‘Listen to me.’ Kathy gently pushed my shoulder. ‘I’m being blackmailed, don’t go to sleep – please, Stu.’

  But sleep I did, a deep, deep unconscious state; the sort that’s only attainable after five hours on your feet, two pints and a comfortable coupling.

  ***

  The alarm clock rattled away. I sat up. Conscious – just, I heard the front door being knocked. Stopcock Arthur? I threw some clothes on, no socks, no shoes – Kathy. I rushed down and opened the front door.

  ‘Master – what happened? Too many this afternoon?’ The big man smiled and I thought I saw Declan stood behind him.

  I almost pulled two pints, what’s up with me?

  I took his money and watched him as he scrutinized me with his hawk eyes. He smiled and shook his head, ‘Do you want one?’ I shook my head, he said, ‘Been through the wringer – who’s the lucky woman?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Your silence says more than a thousand words. Anyway, I can smell it on you. Master, you’ve been on the nest since we all left, fair play to you, you lucky fucker, who was it?’

  ‘No one you’d know.’

  Stopcock thought hard, pushing his empty glass back across towards me. I pulled him another and Stopcock’s thinking became audible, like a noisy thrashing machine with gears and drive shaft clanking their way unerringly to the wrong conclusion.

  ‘Brendan’s wake.’

  Silence again, you nosey old bugger. If I kept insulting him, he’d lose his line of thought; you nosey parker, keep your nose out.

  ‘Bridget.’

  Stopcock you are a…

  ‘Bridget.’

  No trace from me; ice cool. I wanted to tell him who I could still taste and smell; it wasn’t Bridget, but he ploughed on.

  ‘Bridget! Fancy that – you and Bridget,’ I must have looked alarmed, he leant over close and in a confidential whisper said, ‘I won’t tell anyone – don’t worry, master – mum’s the word.’ He tapped his nose as if to reassure me, discretion assured.

  ‘Scuse me a minute. I need to get dressed.’

  ‘Have a
wash as well, master – you stink of sex.’

  I went back into the living room; no sign. Kathy had slipped away. I sighed, went to the sink in the kitchen and washed her off my face and hands. I took a pair of socks and shoes through with me and went back to work. I looked at the bricklayer as I tied a shoe and snapped at him, ‘Stopcock – you’ve got a big mouth!’

  And just to prove my point, his mouth slowly opened, hanging open, a hinged manhole. But it suited me for Arthur to bang on about Bridget – he’d tell Shirley, she’d tell the world.I smiled at this fortunate turn of events. In fact when Ron scuttled across the threshold, I was still grinning.

  He slid some change across the bar, ‘I’ll wipe that grin off your face. I know all about you, you smarmy bastard.’

  Ron even felt emboldened enough to wave his calloused finger under my nose.

  ‘Steady on, Ron.’ Arthur determined to keep the peace. ‘He’s just had an afternoon in bed with Bridget.’

  Ron’s weasel eyes drilled into me, ‘No he hasn’t. I know, I know.’

  He turned away and went across to his customary evening table and reached across for the domino box, all the time staring at me.

  I felt the hangman’s noose around me. Not my throat, but wrapped around my chest and being pulled tighter and tighter. I couldn’t drag any air into my lungs; all I could hear was Arthur saying over and over. ‘Take no notice of the little shit-stirrer, you know what he’s like.’

  I knew all right and with it came Kathy’s words, ‘I’m being blackmailed.’

  No prizes for predicting who the blackmailer was.

  ***

  Kathy rang me Monday morning, bright and cheerful. ‘I had an argument with Bridget.’ Calm about an argument with her best friend, ‘About you, actually.’

  ‘Why?’ They were so close. ‘What happened? Why me?’

  ‘I teased her about you – how it was just like the old days, you know how she always got pissed and ended up in bed with you.’

  ‘Rather you than me – how did she take it?’

  ‘Badly, I can’t believe you didn’t notice – she was all over you.’

  I never gave it a thought at the time, but it made sense. Alcohol and a wake made for a potent aphrodisiac, that and an absent boyfriend. I missed it all. Still, me and Bridget over the years… Well, perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing.

  I laughed at how it had all worked out, ‘Shirley thinks it was me and Bridget, I denied it of course, which just seemed to confirm her suspicions.’

  It went quiet, just her regular breathing, at last she said, ‘Why do you think I played the gooseberry?’

  ‘I hadn’t realised that you were.’

  ‘Hmm – I’m sorry, but I want you to myself, do you mind?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ I sighed, ‘It’s Ron, isn’t it?’

  Kathy’s silence confirmed this.

  I tried not to shout, managed just about to keep my voice even. ‘I’ll kill him. He’s dead.’

  Chapter 9

  1960

  I ran hard. After all, five minutes wasn’t long when a division of the Waffen SS were after you. I glanced behind me – nothing, only empty pasture and Declan labouring after me. His face was twisted, his body tortured, like a dehydrated, breathless olympic walker. I knelt down behind a tree in a twisting line of willows, a peaceful scene, and waited for my heavy-breathing friend. I looked across towards the canal where Ron had a ladder up against the bridge. From this distance, he appeared in a concentrated preparation for some sort of maintenance job.

  But I knew; I had seen him chiselling out the great bricks of Portland stone from the bridge and then wheel-barrowed them home to put the finishing touches to Shirley’s rockery. The sneaky little man told all and sundry that he was on some one-man bridge restoration project. I stared across at him, thought about his allotment and generated thoughts in his direction – you won’t like this Ron, but I’ve bombed your allotment.

  I took my glance away from the destructive stonemason and thought how different the weather was to earlier this morning. It could be another continent; so calm that only the slow-moving brook and a fly buzzing around my motionless head produced any sound. It was hot and still, apart from a gentle summer breeze carrying a haze of sweet-smelling pollen across the field. Clouds of flies hung over the fresh cow pats.

  ‘Where’s Dudley?’

  I ignored Declan and looked around as a butterfly hovered precariously over the brook and listened as a woodpecker tapped close by, reminding me of a lone machine gunner. Above, a plane pistoned noisily across the sky and I dreamt of dog fighting Spitfires and half a dozen diving Focke–Wulf 189’s. Smiling to myself as I remembered my old man’s joke, yes – those Fockers were actually Meschersmits! A tractor in an adjacent field generated a haze of dust that hung in the warm air.

  ‘Where’s Dudley and Patrick?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ I snapped this at the persistent inquisitor, his jaw sagged and head dropped. I softened my voice. ‘We have to be quiet or they’ll soon find us.’

  Declan nodded, ‘Where’s…’

  Inexplicably, Wyn sauntered into our world, walking along the line of willow trees that followed the meandering brook. He stopped and stared at the water, bent down, picked a twig up and under-armed it into the stream. He brought his hands up onto his hips, leant back and stared up at the blue sky for ages. Taking deep breaths and staring around, he looked serene, smiling to himself. The message on his broad face was so clear, I’m so happy and no one can upset me.

  Despite the dry spell, the grass adjacent to the brook was not only a bottle green, but abundant. A spray of sunshine yellow buttercups were by Wyn’s feet, as his hands rested insouciantly into his jacket pockets. Seeing him confused me; the incongruity of a dapper man of the world, casually strolling around deserted pastures in suede brothel creepers and silk cravat, his matinee idol’s moustache and exquisite manners redundant out here. Dad’s words buzzed around my head; he kept saying to me that Wyn never gave a toss about anyone. But dad’s assessment was way off the mark; I felt that Wyn cared too much – about Shirley, anyway.

  He spotted me, crouched behind the tree, ‘My boy – my boy, what are you doing all on your own?’ Captain Concern once again. ‘Where are the others?’ Wyn put his arm around me, ‘Not had a falling out have you?’

  I shook my head and pointed at Declan stood behind a willow tree, pissing into the brook. Wyn nodded and I stared up at him, his cologne distinct amongst the cow pats and grass pollen. ‘We’re hiding, Patrick holds the dog, gives us five minutes and then tries to find us. They’re all Germans today, I’m Mr Goldstone and we’re on the run from them.’

  He nodded, then smiled, apparently giving this game careful thought. ‘Who’s playing Mrs Goldstone, Declan?’

  I nodded and we both laughed. I quickly glanced at Declan, fortunately he’d missed Wyn’s comment. I said, ‘Why are you walking around here?’ I spread my arm around the empty meadow.

  ‘Making plans, little man; I’m enjoying the weather and making plans.’ He stared around the horizons of my universe. ‘I suppose the dog finds you pretty quick?’

  ‘No.’ Shaking my head in disappointment, ‘He gets distracted by the rabbits and forgets about me – he’s just a useless fucker.’

  Realizing what I had just said, I felt my mouth form a perfect circle. My eyes stared hard at the ground and I waited for Wyn’s rebuke.

  Instead he laughed, ‘Fancy calling your dog that – you’re as bad as your father.’ Wyn stopped smiling and gently touched my face with the back of his fingers, letting them rest delicately on my cheekbone as he spoke. ‘I’m very happy, I’ve had a lovely time with you little man, this has been a charming summer for me.’ He appeared wistful and distracted, eventually looking away from me and I followed his gaze, both of us noticing the dog’s lethargic and haphazard pursuit of sluggish rabbits.

  Anxious to disentangle myself from Wyn’s sentimental
mood, I shouted. ‘Dudley!’ The dog’s head came around towards me. ‘Here!’ Shouted to emphasize the animal’s deep and assured sixth sense that movement towards me was albeit reluctant and certainly inevitable. He came over unwillingly, head down to accept his punishment.

  I know I’ve been a very bad boy – but please don’t shout at me.

  I treasured the sweetness of his ears. When Dudley realised I was smelling them and not going to shout, he sighed so deeply. I think Wyn mistook it for a snarl. At that moment we noticed Patrick approach the bridge. I sent the dog his way and he loped towards Patrick, tail sweeping at a long-lost friend – well, lost for fully five minutes anyway. At the same time, Ron began the long climb up his long ladder. It had two extensions and was precariously angled to avoid the brackish sludge that constituted the canal at this time of year. I felt my eyebrows stretch – as soon as Ron stuck his head over the parapet, he would be nose to nose with the dog.

  Ron’s head came over the top, coinciding with the dog’s arrival on the bridge. I imagined Ron’s paranoia sweeping through – attacked by the same mad dog, twice in a fortnight! It was impossible to gauge, no way of telling who was the more surprised. Nose to nose. There was a momentary impasse, then the dog started to bark, a good enough indicator as to which of them responded the quickest. The visibly distressed dog barked ferociously and the part time stone mason took both hands off the ladder to protect his face and at attention, fell backwards shouting.

  ‘Fuuuuuuuck!’

  His Doppler affected shout rang across the meadow. We saw him flop into the viscous, algae-coated slurry, which on a warm day like this, took on the viscous properties of one huge, freshly-laid cowpat.

  I turned and ran – Ron had to be mortally injured; Dudley came up behind me, smoothly, like a relay runner executing the perfect changeover. He always had one eye on me and, seeing me running, he thought this is a good game. Oblivious to the carnage wreaked on the bridge, he loped alongside looking up at me. That was good.