Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  I snapped at Jim, ‘Have you told him yet?’

  He nodded, tight mouth open, pig eyes blinking away. I never liked this pub, the smug fat landlord’s mobile features worried their way towards me. ‘And what can I get you? Bitter or a nice pint of this new chilled lager I’ve got?’

  Jim had done his job; the landlord’s edginess confirmed this, although I didn’t really want one of his second rate pints. I said, ‘I’ll just have a pint of that warm, flat piss you served me the last time I was in here – please.’

  Jim laughed, the landlord gazed, open-mouthed, is he joking? Actually, I wasn’t, but he laughed it off anyway. A year ago, Patrick started a fight and then tipped a full pint of Guinness over a woman wearing a white top and white hot-pants. A few tables got turned over as a result. The landlord’s fat face trembled away, looking for trouble, are you? His small eyes darted towards Ron and made the obvious calculation.

  Ron’s eyes were on me and I spoke to him, ‘Always so nice to see you Ron – hit anyone with a brick lately?’

  The badly lit bar gave his deep-set eyes unnatural shadows and gave an twisted depth to Ron’s face. The parallel with twelve years ago was apparent, all caused by Ron that time and now? Here we go again. He ignored me, the empty glass clenched in his shaking hand.

  I got close to him, ‘Have you?’

  He’d got the same tic in his face, the one driven by a compressor. ‘Hit anyone on the back of the head recently?’

  Ron looked away.

  ‘Ok, forget bricks, have you drowned any eleven year old boys lately?’ He stared down at his empty glass. I hissed in his ear. ‘Go on – push that empty glass into my face, do you want me to make it easy for you and look the other way?’

  Nothing, just the tic on his cheek pulsing. The fat landlord said, ‘Drink up and leave or I’ll have to ring the police.’

  ‘Just shut your fat mouth.’ I smiled at Ron, remembering how he always called me a little pansy. ‘Whenever you smell flowers, you look for a coffin. It’s your coffin this time, Ron. I’ll haunt you for what you did to Kathy and Declan. Just stay out of my way, you nasty little bastard. Another thing, just lay a finger on Shirley and you’re a dead man.’

  The landlord was talking down the phone like some First World War scout suddenly seeing an infantry charge coming his way. I smiled and stared slowly around the room. No one looked my way, least of all Ron. I wanted to hit him in the kidneys so hard. Turn his sky black and make his sun change into a moon. Fair play; he waited stoically for the punch, but not tonight, Ron.

  Just one more thing to say. ‘You shopped my Uncle Wyn didn’t you – all those years ago? You put him away for a couple of months and then told Shirley that lie.’

  Ron frowned his rodent’s frown and stared into his empty glass. I put my full pint back on the bar and said goodnight to the landlord. Wrapped my arm around Ron, who shuddered as I whispered. ‘Goodnight Ron – sweet dreams.’

  ***

  A persistent downpour, grey clouds rolling slowly down from Newbury, grey roofs glistening, the market place awash. Car brake lights ghostly reflections from steel grey roads. I ran down to the pub, that felt so good, energy to burn again.

  I slammed the door, a grand entrance – heads swivelled my way, Stopcock and Tommy sat at the bar, Patrick playing crib with dad. My old man growled, ‘You look a bit brighter, what are you smiling at?’

  I’m feeling good, just that.

  ‘Hello master, what you having?’

  ‘No – no, I’ll get you two a drink.’

  My old man and Patrick’s total concentration meant no acknowledgement of my presence – clash of the titans, no time for me. I went behind the bar, nodded to the two opposite, and raised my eyebrows. They both nodded and I filled their glasses.

  A shout from the crib table, ‘I hope you’ve put the money in the till.’

  I smiled. ‘I have.’ I’d over-estimated my old man’s level of focus, repeating softly this time, ‘I have – misery.’

  Stopcock edged forward on his stool, then beckoned me over. We were cabalistic partners now; his leather face close to mine. ‘A little bird told us.’ he glanced behind him, then behind me, ‘Told us that it’s public knowledge who did it and that you’re going to fix them.’

  God bless Jim.

  I played it cool, ‘Chinese whispers I expect, only Chinese whispers.’

  Tommy hissed at me, ‘Fuck off – you told Jim. What’s this about Declan?’

  I barked a sharp little laugh back towards them. ‘You shouldn’t believe anything Jim tells you.’

  Stopcock’s face suggested why-ever not?

  Jack came in and placed his battered and scuffed briefcase in the fireplace, hung his dripping raincoat up and placed his trilby on the briefcase. He straightened his tie, smoothed his hair back and fumbled for his wallet.

  ‘No need, Jack,’ Tommy pointed at me, ‘The boy’s come into some money.’

  Jack’s eyebrows formed an elegant arch, ‘Stuart – thank you, young man.’

  I placed his pint on the bar and Jack considered a couple of issues in his head. What’s the surface speed of the earth as it spins on its axis? Will I ever make the front page of the Oxford Mail again? He inspected the head on his beer; no more than half of an inch, no less than three-eighths; all’s well with world. He stared at me, eventually. ‘Stuart, just the man, have you anything to say to me? Got some gossip, I hear.’

  ***

  I cooked later. Kathy never mentioned Bernice and I didn’t ask. Bright and cheerful, she said, ‘I never bothered to apply for that job.’

  I smiled at her. ‘You wouldn’t want me to take the pub on?’

  She sighed. ‘I knew you’d ask me that.’ Kathy placed her fork back on an empty plate and said, ‘I want to look after babies seven days a week, not a pub.’

  ‘I thought you wanted a career.’

  ‘I thought I wanted both.’ Kathy put her hand on mine, ‘I know how good it was for you; Peggy always tells me what a wonderful place it was to bring you up, having you close by all the time. Mind you, we might have to if you don’t get a proper job.’

  We might indeed

  I changed the subject. ‘I’ve talked to Ron.’

  Kathy glanced up, her mouth opened a touch and her eyebrows came up, you never hit him?

  ‘He did it – I’ve known for a few days.’

  Kathy said nothing, her glance had become a frowning accusation, ‘Please tell me you never hit him.’

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s still alive.’

  ‘Did you hit him though?’

  I repeated it, ‘Unfortunately, he’s alive.’ This pulled her up, ‘I had to see him, just to let him know.’

  I held her hand and touched her cheekbone with the other.

  Chapter 17

  1960

  Everyone had gone.

  I lay in bed and couldn’t get the thoughts out of my head. Everyone had gone; Wyn was in hospital, Ron in prison, Dudley in a grave and Declan… who knew where he was?

  Everyone had gone; except Kenny, and he’d gone quiet and stopped coming near me.

  My uncle would be back again, once they’d stitched him up, that is. Ron was in prison and would be for a good few years. Mum said that Shirley could sort her life out and become a mother again, whatever that meant. Wyn would soon be back with Aunty Doris.

  Unlike my aunty, I was tired of all the lies, of the webs spun by my uncle. The lies that sounded like truths. Tired of it all, tired of being afraid, tired of my heart aching. I knew that I’d never see Declan again, despite dad telling me not to worry and that he’d turn up soon enough. Mum was more circumspect, brutally honest in fact. He wouldn’t be coming back, she sat me down and calmly told me that he’d gone forever.

  Expect the worst, he’s gone.

  But despite her certainty, I saw Declan all the time – hiding in the shadows, asking me questions, drowning in the canal. The canal had b
een dragged of course, by black rubber suited police divers. But we all knew that you could hide anything in there. My old man said that you could drive one of Joe’s beat-up lorries into the water and never see it again. Three feet of water, then soft, viscous mud capable of hiding anything large, let alone a small boy. I’d walked up and down the towpath enough times over the last few days, shouting for Declan, shouting for the dog. Shouting for my sanity, which had followed Declan into the ether.

  Chapter 18

  1972

  The next morning was mild and cloudy, but dry. I sat on the steps under the statue, waiting for Ron. He saw me quickly enough and spun off, avoiding both me and the paper shop. I stared after him. Don watched me watching Ron, put two and two together and came alongside and sat down.

  He tried hard, ‘When do you start training again?’

  ‘Couple of weeks, I hope.’ I preferred it when he wanted to fight me. His face was fuller these days, but he looked no older. Even when Don tried to be sincere, his thick lips sneered – a reflex? Probably, just an uncontrollable reaction, and I guessed he wasn’t even aware of it. We talked the talk, old times, old fights re-fought. Don said, ‘My temporary secondment to C.I.D is becoming permanent.’

  I said, ‘C.I.D., you – you’re joking.’

  He laughed, ‘I won’t even have to move over to Oxford.’ I looked at him, staring around the market place; a constant lover no longer about to leave on a long and unwelcome journey. Don smiled, a relieved smile, at a stay of execution. ‘We heard about you and Ron in the Wheatsheaf. You made some pretty wild accusations.’

  ‘Wild accusations?’ I shrugged, ‘That’s me all over.’

  Don smiled, ‘Shirley said he was with her. If what you were saying is true, it means that Shirley’s statement is a lie.’

  ‘I was in a playful mood. It’s over, and leave Shirley alone.’

  ‘No summary justice for you, then.’

  ‘I’ve had my say.’ I shook my head, ‘Not from me and I hope my old man feels the same.’

  ‘I’ve already told him, and Peggy has. It’ll only end up in more trouble for Shirley – she could get into real trouble. No one wants that.’

  Fred went by on his bike, his back wheel still squeaking like a piglet with someone stood on its throat.

  I smiled, ‘Late again.’

  Don nodded, ‘He’s only got a couple of years to go – you never played football against him, did you?’ I shook my head, ‘Well – you always said I was slow.’

  We laughed again, it must be time to move on – what was up with me? Talking to Don; my old man would have a purple fit.

  ***

  Saturday evening and I had a soft warming rain on my face. Tonight, life would return to normal, the heartening certainty of ritual a few minutes away. I went past Mr. Goldstone as he locked up, about to remove his overall. It would be ten minutes before the heavy over coat wrapped itself around his slight shoulders and he’d then scurry down the hill, nervous in the gathering gloom. I crunched across the gravel carpark and in through the back door. I looked in the dog’s corner, fully expecting him to be grinning away at me.

  I was jolted out of my daydream when I saw mum stood with her hand on Shirley’s arm. Shirley was in a chair, one elbow on the table, her head drooped forward. She never looked my way, but I could see her swollen cheek and angry bruises under both her eyes. On the table in front of her, a full ashtray, an empty cup of coffee, a full glass of gin and an empty cigarette packet. Don was sat close by and Wyn paced the floor, an expectant father, helplessly listening to Shirley’s metaphorical screams of labour.

  ‘What happened?’

  As if I needed an answer. No one looked my way except Wyn, whose eyebrows arched – don’t say a word. He said, ‘Time to open up, my boy.’ With an assertive hand on my elbow, he steered me efficiently through into the bar and whispered, ‘She’ll be stopping here for a few days.’

  ‘Where’s dad?’ Panic stricken, ‘He’ll kill him this time, Ron’s soon for another world.’

  Wyn’s eyes for once had a hard edge and yet he spoke so softly. ‘Don’t worry, Harry won’t do anything – can’t do anything – Ron’s been arrested. He beat her up this morning, later on she rang me. I told her to get over here straightaway. Peggy rang the police… Shirley’s told them everything, changed her statement.’ His eyes fluid brown once more, reassured me. ‘She’s told them everything.’

  ‘But there’s no evidence.’

  ‘There is now.’ I stared open-mouthed, recognised Wyn’s expression, after all, I’d seen it so many times; I know things that you don’t.

  I said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Shirley told me, the day after you got beat up – about the blood she found on Ron’s shirt. I told her not to wash it and to put it somewhere safe. I knew she’d do the right thing; there was never any doubt in my mind – or Peggy’s, come to that.’

  ‘You both knew? Shirley told me, but I thought it was only the two of us that knew.’

  A flash of temper came over me and I even managed to sound petulant. Wyn shrugged and touched the remains of the bruise on my cheek, ever sensitive to my mood. ‘We couldn’t say anything – you know what your father’s like. I couldn’t even be sure about you either.’ He held my stare, a rock-solid harbour wall, beating the rising tide of my temper back before he calmly pressed on, ‘Ron’s inside. As usual, your mum’s been a rock.’ His eyes twinkled; you won’t believe this. ‘Don’s been marvellous with her, all day, making things as easy as possible under the circumstances.’

  Don and ‘marvellous’ didn’t quite go together and I tried to work it all out, Shirley was obviously the bravest women in the world, but mum would have been urging her, like she does, you can do it Shirley, be strong. I guessed that would be it; not that mum would claim any credit. Either way, Wyn had calmed me down and I felt my brief outburst ebb gently away.

  I nodded, ‘Celebration then – do you want one?’

  He shook his head, an attempt to shake off a misty sadness that had recently enveloped him. ‘No thanks.’ Wyn stared at me for a long time, unnerving me before he finally spoke. ‘You remember how I always hammered it into you about regret and how it will slowly throttle you?’ Fumbling for his cigars gave him the excuse to avert my eyes and go through his smoker’s ritual. Despite the distraction, he appeared hurt and beaten. I knew what troubled him and I found it ironic that all his oft-quoted words about revenge and remorse had finally burst into his life and punched him squarely between the eyes. ‘All this would never have happened if…’

  He trailed off and lowered his head. Wyn’s absolute self confidence – gone, and it hurt me to see him like this, I whispered, ‘Now’s your chance, sweep her off her feet and wander off into the sunset with her.’

  A tortured smile and another reluctant sigh, ‘It’s too late – Shirley’s only 47 for God’s sake, the last thing she wants at the moment is another man under her feet.’ Wyn’s breath hissed out, ‘I can’t bear to think about what might have been and what the future might have held. I try to console myself with the thought that it would have never worked out. I mean just think – if we were still together that is, in ten years time, I’d be seventy and she’d be feeding me my soup through a straw.’

  Wyn tried to laugh. I guessed that for the first and only time in his life he never sounded convincing. He rested his cigar on the ashtray, took another deep sighing breath and we looked at each other.

  ‘You know that Ron shopped you to the police?’

  ‘When? What are you talking about?’ His soft brown eyes gazed my way, Wyn’s eyebrows went up for a few seconds. ‘What’s Jack been saying?’

  ‘Told me about dad’s last fight – nothing about blackmail, though.’ We stared on, ‘Ron shopped you, and Shirley had no idea, why don’t you tell her what happened?’

  ‘Blackmail.’ Wyn sighed, ‘Small stuff, a pint here, ten shillings there. Jack was wide open to it. You’re a
man of the world now. You know how it is.’

  ‘You’re not listening.’ I rested my hand on his wrist. ‘Tell her that Ron broke things up for you back then. Tell her you didn’t run off with one of your dancing girls.’

  Wyn shrugged, ‘It’s too late, my boy.’

  ‘Tell her what the nasty little bastard did.’

  ‘Forget what Ron did.’ Wyn stubbed his cigar out, and chased it around the ashtray for a while. A preoccupied stubbing out; he brought his eyes back to me and said. ‘I still had my chance twelve years ago, don’t forget. If I don’t quite hate myself for not dragging Shirley away from here.’ His arm went around the room, ‘I regret playing my cards so badly. My last shot and I got it wrong. Then I watched you and began to regret what happened to me more and more. Don’t take this the wrong way, my boy, because I’m so happy for you. But I missed my chance and that really hurts me.’

  Then a look, pained like a dog having his half eaten-dinner taken away – and you got the girl.

  ‘But…’

  Wyn put the palms of his hands up and smiled, unburdened and relaxed once more. ‘There – I’ve said it and I feel better.’ His hand rested on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure if Wyn had finished; I waited and finally he said. ‘You’d better open up.’

  I nodded, took a short walk, ever happy to do his bidding. When I came back he had gone.

  ***

  I pulled pints on a slow and easy Sunday night, slow and easy. Just the piano and the steady murmur of conversation, which suited me fine, blue music, and a good pianist. A perfect end to the weekend and an end of sorts to the conflict that had assailed all of us recently.

  I picked my glass up, threw some beer down my throat and watched as Kathy made her self-assured walk up towards the bar. Head up, shoulders back, wearing her new status like a military campaign ribbon. Comfortable with the little scandal we had generated over the last months or so. She came up to Tommy, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. Tommy’s eyes flicked around the bar, a muscle ticked away in his vacant cheek, finally he smiled.