by Nigel Bird
“Haven’t seen you in a couple of months, Max. What’s occurring?”
“I’ve got a mate who’s been giving me a chop every now and then.”
“What’s he by trade? A butcher?”
“Works in computers. I suppose he could be a hacker.”
George laughs and sets to cutting. “To what do I owe the honour? Is it love or have you got a job interview?”
“I wouldn’t get done up just for a job.”
“Love it is then.”
“And this time, I think it’s the one.” He’s just bigging it up, like he does with all of his barber’s shop conversations, but he’s still surprised by his choice of words.
“When I met the wife I knew it was big time. And it got bigger and bigger. So did she.”
“But never as big as your mouth George.” It’s the squawk of his Mrs again. She must get to hear every word.
“Didn’t you say you had shopping to do?” George calls back.
“I can pop out any time,” she says.
“Listen George.” There goes his Tony Blair mouth again. “You’ve been around these parts for a good while.”
“All our lives, mate. Know it like the back of me ‘and.”
“Ever come across a Mr Evans?”
George looks into the mirror and wrinkles up his face. “You got a first name to go with that?”
Evans is as close to first name terms as they’ve come. “No first name. He’s got to be seventy if he’s a day. Lives over by the disused railway tracks. Piano teacher.”
“Evans? Evans?” George says the words out loud as if it will help him think. “Nothing springs to mind.”
The old lady enters from the back. She’s a large woman who carries her weight like a goblin. Her feet barely leave the floor as she walks. Her overcoat’s a shabby grey and she’s carrying a few empty shopping bags and a handbag.
“You remember any Evans, Doris?”
“Wasn’t that Taffy’s name?”
“Taffy Evans! Has to be.”
“Now there was an ‘andsome bloke for you,” Doris says.
“’Andsome, but a bit strange.”
“How do you mean, strange?”
“Don’t listen to ‘im,” Doris says. “He’s just jealous. There was nothing wrong with Taffy, he was just a bit shy. Always reading and playing the piano. He broke a few hearts, he did.”
“He was good an’ all. Used to play down at the dance hall.”
“We looked a picture in them days,” Doris says.
They’ve gone all glassy eyed, like they’re about to go off down memory lane. There’s no time for such a luxury – he’ll only get five minutes in the hot-seat. “Remember anything about him?”
“That was a sad tale,” George says. “You tell him, Doris.”
“Well, he always had big ideas. Always talking about leaving and playing piano in all the countries of the world. And then one day, he left. Just like that.”
“Took off just before he was about to go on his National Service.”
“And he ended up playing with some real stars. We saw his picture in the paper that time.”
The idea of Evans and the stars doesn’t feel right, not with him living in his tumbledown cottage the way he does. “If you saw the man I’m thinking of now...”
“Life’s a funny thing,” George interrupts. “It can take you wherever it wants whenever it wants. Like I say, breathe in...”
“Breathe out,” Doris finishes, “that’s all you can hope to do.” She looks sad when she says it, not just about being fat and old, but touched by something from far away or long gone. “Still. It don’t always seem fair the way it chooses.”
“Nobody said things should ever be fair,” a barber’s philosophy being a bit like that of a taxi-driver’s.
“Shut it dear. You’ll be giving the boy nightmares.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t found out for myself.”
“Well I hope you never have to find it out like old Taffy.”
“How do you mean?”
All this standing seems to have done for her legs. She steps back and sits down on a couple of the customers’ chairs. “Well I don’t know for sure. What I heard was that it was going like a dream. He got to play all around Europe just like he’d said he would.” She takes out her cigarettes and lights up before carrying on. “Then he started to play some swanky place in Paris. And fell in love. The most beautiful woman in town, I heard it. A ballerina from Russia or Spain or somewhere.”
George leaps in. “A ballerina from Russia or Spain who was already married to some big producer type.”
“Some guy who made his fortune during the war.”
“Not the sort of man you’d want to meet in a dark alley if you get my drift.”
The cigarette and the memory seem to have brought life back to the old dear. She’s waving her arms and talking faster by the second. “When the guy found out his wife was having an affair, he weren’t a happy bunny. Story goes he caught them together in some restaurant. Went for Taffy with a cutthroat razor.” George acts it out with his pair of scissors. “Only the beautiful bird got in the way. Got caught right across the jugular. Taffy went crazy. Beat the bloke to death with his bare hands. By the time the gendarmes pulled him off, the girl had gone and shuffled off this mortal coil an’ all.”
It kind of makes sense. Max’s stomach churns like a butter maker. “My God.”
“His reputation was ruined.”
“They sent him down for a while, but he didn’t get life on account of it being a crime of passion or something.” Doris sighs. “He was so romantic.”
“But his heart was broken.”
“And when the husband’s connections got on to things, so were his fingers.”
“His whole life ruined in one evening.”
Max feels sick. The old lady just keeps on. “That’s what people said, anyway. After that, well, we always thought he’d croaked it.”
“How terrible.” Max shakes his head and gets a nick from the scissors in the process.
“Keep still, son.”
“You know where he is now, you say.”
Max shakes his head again, this time without getting nicked. “No. I don’t think it can be the same guy.” Something tells him it would be best if Mr Evans could keep his life as it is. Quiet and private, the way he seems to want it.
“You never know,” the old lady says, pushing herself up onto her feet. “Give him my regards if you see ‘im. I’m off. Chops all right for tea love?”
“And let’s push the boat out to celebrate the return of the prodigal here. Grab a couple of bottles of beer to go with them.”
She waddles over to the barber and kisses him. Even though Max gets to see the long grey hairs that grow from her upper lip getting in on the act, he still warms to the moment.
George holds up a mirror for Max to see. It’s near perfect.
Next George picks up the razor to finish off and Max gets a flashing image of a restaurant in Paris into his mind, full of blood and noise. The razor scratches against his skin and the urge to rush round and give Evans a hug fills his body.
TWENTY TWO
Max and Chris are in a pool hall, standing at a table sizing up the state of play. There are only a couple of other games on the go.
Max chalks the tip of his cue. “I’m taking her to the Phoenix again tomorrow night.”
“What’s playing?”
He takes a moment before answering, lining up the cue-ball with the yellow ball at the far end of the table. “All About Eve and Only Angels Have Wings.” He takes his shot and the yellow rattles about in the jaws of the pocket before rebounding back into the pack.
Chris gets close to Max. “Is there any chance we could make it a foursome?”
“What? You and Angela?”
“I’d really appreciate it. I can’t seem to get the ball rolling that’s all.”
“That’s not like you.”
“I’m
nearly in there.” Chris hits the cue-ball and plants the red ball into the far pocket as if to underline the point.
“What about those lines you’re so proud of?”
“I respect her too much for all of that nonsense.” It’s like a new Chris has taken the place of the old one. A robot, maybe. Max might have a Stepford bachelor on his hands.
“Then you’re on. Provided it’s all right with Cath.”
Chris leans down to take his shot. The white ball misses everything, rattles around the cushions and knocks the black which drops down the near-left hole. He smashes the butt of the cue into the ground and everyone turns to look his way.
“Brilliant,” he shouts. “I owe you.” He shows his open palm to let everyone in the room know that there’s no harm done. “Best of five?”
“Set them up and I’ll get us more coffee.”
The counter at the back of the room’s more like a kitchen than a professional catering setup. A girl with overly long nails that have been painted blue fills two mugs from the kettle and passes them over. She flutters her false eyelashes and tilts her head to one side. “Haven’t seen much of you lately,” she says.
“I’ve had a few things going on.”
“I thought we had a few things going on, too.” It’s true that they’d had a snog or two after the pubs closed a while back and that she was a very good kisser. Not that they were ever going to be serious.
“Well, like I said...” He picks up a couple of flapjacks from the plate on the counter, drops the correct change into the girl’s hand and picks up the mugs.
The girl tuts and nods her head. “Milk and sugar are where they always were. And so am I.”
Max gets back to Chris as quickly as he can manage.
The balls have been neatly set on the table and Chris breaks off. “Do you believe all that stuff about your Mr Evans?”
Max puts everything down on the round table next to where they’re playing, managing to spill half the tea before he’s done. He picks up the cue and tries to make it look like he had a misspent youth. He pots a red, then another and another. “Most of it makes sense,” he says when he takes a moment to chalk up.
“Not to me it doesn’t.”
“If you met him, you’d understand.”
“All seems a bit farfetched to me.”
Max settles back at the table and knocks two reds in with the one shot. It never happens like this. He rarely pots more than two in a row, let alone at the same time. When he bends down again, lines up the ball and warms up the cue, it’s like his elbow has been oiled. “It explains a lot.” The red that he hits rebounds from the cushion and rolls into the centre pocket. No way on earth he meant to do it and no way in a million years could he do it again. He looks around to see if anyone else has noticed his moment as Eddie Felson. Nobody’s watching.
“Why he doesn’t like you so much you mean.”
“Why he tries so hard not to like me,” Max corrects.
Another red and the black go down. It’s the first time he’s ever cleared the table in one. His heart skips and gambols like a lamb who’s never heard of carnivores. Chris claps. Sadly, no one else joins in.
“Best of ten? “Chris asks.
“We’d better get back to work. Finish the coffee and we’ll head off.”
“I’ll need to stop on the way to get Angela a little something.”
“Chocolates or flowers?”
“I was thinking both.”
He must be serious. “Both sounds good.”
They collect the balls together ready to take back to the counter.
After the coffee’s done and the flapjack’s eaten, they go over and drop the box and the cues off. The girl with the nails is flicking through a magazine that doesn’t appear to have any words. “See you babe,” Chris says.
She raises her middle finger in his direction and, without looking up, says goodbye.
TWENTY THREE
Max enters the old man’s room.
Mr Evans is asleep in his chair, snoring gently, his head bent awkwardly to one side. Max stands for a moment with his hands on his hips and surveys the scene. He walks over to the piano and looks at the letters and photos that are spread over the top of it. One of the pictures has fallen onto the floor, so he bends down and picks it up to put it with the others.
The record player is on with a record that has finished playing still turning and making a click like a slow, regular heartbeat. Max goes over and removes the arm and the clicking stops.
By Evans’s feet is an empty bottle that’s lying on its side. Next to it are a small puddle and glass.
Max picks up the glass, takes a sniff and flinches. Lighter fluid 1949 by the smell of it. He raises it to the old man and drinks it down in one. It tastes better than it smells - ’49 must have been a good year.
The place is a shambles. The whole house needs fumigating and starting again.
Poor old guy.
Max takes off his coat and lays it over Evans. Next he takes a cushion from the floor and shoves it in to place so that Evans’s head looks more comfortable.
He picks up the overflowing ashtray and the bottle and walks into the kitchen.
It’s as bad in there as ever. There are piles of paper plates and empty tin cans among an assortment of dirty pans and cutlery. Withnail and I had it easy.
There’s an empty bag on the floor in the corner. Max empties the ashtray into it and chucks in the bottle.
He goes over to the sink and inserts the plug into its hole. He turns the taps on and lets them run while he goes back into the main room, licks his fingers and extinguishes the candles.
There’s a small hiss and the room is left in darkness.
TWENTY FOUR
Cath’s flat is as immaculate as ever. On the piano, a fresh bunch of wild flowers housed in an art-deco vase.
As the baby-sitting circle has temporarily stalled, Jazz and Alan have stepped in to watch Alice.
“I really appreciate this,” Cath says.
“We don’t mind at all, do we Alan?” Max knows that they’re too early on in their relationship for him to be disagreeing.
“Er, no,” he says, the correct answer not flowing from his mouth in quite the way it should. “Course we don’t.”
Max has to hand it to Alan. He may be sleeping with his ex, but he’s actually pretty normal otherwise.
“You’ve known Max for a long time, haven’t you?” Cath says to Jazz. He’s not sure, but Max thinks this counts as fishing.
“He’s probably my oldest friend.” Childhood sweethearts and all that.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Cath says. Presumably this is the cue for Jazz to reciprocate. To jump into details of the past and delve into the murky waters of their lives together. For the first time, Max is grateful that Alan’s there – no way she’s going to be spilling any beans. “Was she asleep when you checked?”
“Out like a light.”
“We should get going then.”
Max looks at the baby-sitters who sit up, seemingly impatient to get their hands on the goodies that have been set out in the kitchen and to have such a swanky pad at their disposal. “Are you going to be all right?”
“We’ll be cool.” Jazz says. Cool? Since when did the temperature make the evening?
“If Alice wakes, she’ll probably just need a drink or the toilet. She’s a pretty good sleeper.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Jazz says.
“Jazz is great with kids anyway. I’ve seen her with her little sisters.”
“They’re not so little these days,” Alan says. Somehow, he always manages to score points, like a boxer who swings as he bounces off the ropes and makes a lucky hit.
There’s a flurry of goodnights. Handshakes and kisses are swapped like rare stamps and handled just as carefully.
Max and Cath wander out and the door shuts behind them.
For a few seconds, Alan and Jazz sit perfectly still just in case there�
��s a quick return. Footsteps on the stairs reassure them that all’s well.
“Satisfied your curiosity?” Alan asks.
“She seems very nice.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
A pink blush spreads over Jazz’s cheeks. “Don’t you think she’s a bit...I don’t know...experienced for him?”
“We all have to grow up sometimes.”
“But...I don’t know.”
“Jealous?”
She waves the idea away, swatting it over towards the balcony. “I worry about him, that’s all.”
“I’d say he couldn’t be in better hands.”
“Do you think it might be you who’s jealous?”
“I only have eyes for you, Jazz. You know that. “
“Then kiss me and we can get the party started.”
TWENTY FIVE
The bar’s chatty. Chris’s tie is loose and untidy, the top of his shirt unbuttoned to stop him from overheating. His sleeves are rolled up and one of his arms has found its way around the back of Angela’s chair. The other rests on its elbow on their table. He’s got everyone’s attention. Has had it for a bit too long.
“Wait a minute. I’ve got one. How many booksellers does it take to change a light bulb?”
“No idea,” Angela says.
“Me neither,” Cath adds.
“Go on then,” Angela urges.
“I don’t know either,” Chris tells them. “I mean there isn’t an answer yet. Someone has to think of one.”
“So we’ve got to the stage where we need to make up our own jokes now.” Max has lost patience with the foursome thing. Lost patience a couple of drinks ago. The chemistry appears to be toxic.
“Come on Max,” Angela soothes. “It’s not all bad.”
“Seven,” Cath says.
“Why?” Chris enquires.
“That’s the answer, now it’s your turn.”
“One to change the light bulb,” Angela begins.
“And six to fit the old dragon’s fingers in the socket.”
“Bingo.” Chris slaps Max on the back a little harder than the joke deserves.