An Extra Shot

by Stephen Anthony Brotherton

  ‘We need to find you someone,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s go out.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m not in the mood for your gay bars.’

  ‘You could try your straight ones. Oh, hang on a minute, you don’t go anywhere apart from with me.’

  Jo-Jo – June 1980

  Freddie’s Avenger. Driving past the Saddler’s Arms, down the lanes, past a waving Sam the gypsy, winding the window down, stopping for a chat, stroking his greyhounds, driving past our middle of the night lay-by, getting to Fishley Driving Range. We’d buy a bucket of balls for fifty pence, two clubs, a seven iron and a putter, play nine holes of pitch and putt, no-one else around, make love on the fourth green. Playing golf in a storm, the ball hitting the phone lines running the length of the second hole, Freddie getting a hole in one on the seventh. Freezing cold, a Mars bar and a hot chocolate to warm us up. Bucket after bucket after bucket of balls on the driving range.

  ‘Where to now?’ he said.

  ‘Is your mum in?’

  ‘She’s at work until five.’

  ‘Let’s go to yours then. We can curl up in bed for the afternoon.’

  Walking into Freddie’s house. A blue nylon carpet in the hallway covered in dog hair from his incontinent bull terrier, a faint smell of ammonia hitting my nostrils. ‘Why don’t you get rid of her? Have her put to sleep.’ Him looking at me like I’d suffocated a newborn lamb. Up to Freddie’s bedroom. A single bed, a wardrobe, orange curtains, a poster of Debbie Harry onstage at CBGB music club in New York, a walnut veneer telly at the foot of the bed, precariously balanced on a narrow pine coffee table, a coat-hanger acting as a makeshift aerial. We stripped each other naked, climbed under the sheets and blankets, cuddled up, feeding off each other’s body heat, me nuzzling into his black chest hair, him kissing the top of my head.

  Freddie – June 1980

  We were playing darts in the working men’s club in Bloxwich with Jo-Jo’s cousin, Mark, and his girlfriend, Kerry, all of us drinking pints of Mackeson and Vimto. Mark was still gloating after winning the last game, humming along to his Thin Lizzy treble-play-jukebox-reward – ‘The Boys Are Back in Town’, ‘Whisky in The Jar’, ‘Waiting for An Alibi’. Kerry was chalking up the score on the blackboard. Mark had his arm around her. They smelt of patchouli oil and were wearing leather biker jackets covered in heavy rock band badges. ‘Your go, Freddie,’ said Mark.

  ‘What do we need?’ I said.

  ‘A hundred and fifteen,’ said Jo-Jo.

  First dart, a five.

  Jo-Jo squeezed my arm. I took a deep breath, lifted up my black pork pie hat, ran the tip of my next dart around the rim and put the hat back on my head. I looked again at the board. ‘Good luck, sweetheart,’ whispered Jo-Jo.

  ‘A hundred and ten left,’ said Mark.

  Second dart, treble twenty.

  Jo-Jo kissed me on the lips. ‘You need the bull,’ she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

  ‘Are we playing darts or snogging?’ said Kerry.

  ‘We can do both,’ said Jo-Jo. ‘You two should try it.’

  I took aim, conscious of the two old men sat at the table behind me. One of them had a mouthful of broken yellow teeth, the other had no teeth at all. ‘Gummy,’ his mate called him. I could smell their cigarette smoke. I blinked. Blurred vision. I blinked again.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mark. ‘He’s hesitating. That’s a bad sign.’

  Jo-Jo slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Ignore him, sweetheart. You can do it.’

  I refocussed on the board and touched my hat with the final dart. Jo-Jo was nodding at me. I let go of the dart. It hit the red centre and quivered against the wire. I held my breath. It stayed in.

  ‘Bullseye!’ shouted Jo-Jo, throwing her arms around my neck. ‘Our turn to choose the music. What shall we have?’

  *

  We walked over to the jukebox and studied the song choices. Jo-Jo bit her nail on the forefinger of her right hand as she pondered the cards. ‘We should go for the Beatles,’ she said. ‘They’ve got most of the ‘Hey Jude’ album on here.’

  ‘Is that the hats and beards one?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘Dad loves it. The last photo of the Beatles together. Bushy beards, hippy hair and black, wide-brimmed hats – Fedoras, I think.’

  ‘Your kin and his girlfriend won’t be impressed.’

  ‘Who cares? You’ve already ruined his night with that bullseye.’ She squeezed me tight around the waist. ‘What did I do to deserve you? Mr Arrow Man.’

  ‘It was a good shot, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was wonderful,’ she said. ‘And our reward is hats and beards. Your choice, but you’ve got to have that one… that one… and that one.’

  I pressed the buttons. The jukebox clunked into life. ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’, ‘Revolution’, ‘I Should Have Known Better’.

  *

  As we walked back from the jukebox to the sound of John Lennon standing in the dock at Southampton, I could see Kerry and Mark sitting at the table, their half empty pints in front of them. They were holding hands. Mark was saying something to her. Kerry had her head on his shoulder. She said something back and Mark kissed her on the lips. The old man with no teeth, Gummy, turned to his mate and pouted. I nudged Jo-Jo. We stopped walking.

  ‘Go on, my son,’ shouted the man with broken teeth.

  ‘Get your tongue in there,’ said Gummy.

  Kerry and Mark pulled back from each other and looked around, their faces pumped with blood. They looked like they’d just walked out of a sauna.

  ‘You want to get a room, lad,’ said broken-teeth man.

  ‘Yeah, do it properly,’ said Gummy.

  Mark stood up.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Kerry, pulling at his arm. ‘They’re not worth it.’

  Jo-Jo walked over and stood in between Mark and the two men. ‘What are you doing?’ she said to Mark.

  ‘I’m going to punch that bloke behind you,’ said Mark. ‘Knock his teeth out so him and his mate are a matching set.’

  ‘And what do you think that’s going to look like?’ I said, walking over and standing next to Jo-Jo. ‘Punching a defenceless old man.’ I sat down and took a sip of my Mackeson and Vimto. ‘Sit down, for God’s sake. Kerry’s right. They’re not worth it.’

  Jo-Jo sat down and took a sip of her beer. Kerry did the same. We all looked up at Mark who was still glaring at the old men. Gummy pouted at him; Broken-teeth kissed the back of his hand three times and then licked his lips. Jo-Jo laughed. ‘Sit down, Mark, and drink your beer,’ she said. ‘You look ridiculous.’

  Mark sat down.

  ‘I know I said snog him, Kerry, but I didn’t think you’d do it here,’ said Jo-Jo.

  ‘Why not?’ I said. ‘If the urge takes you.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Jo-Jo, pulling me towards her.

  The old men cheered. Mark and Kerry laughed. John Lennon told everyone him and Yoko were getting married in Gibraltar and honeymooning down by the Seine.

  Jo-Jo – April 1980

  Mum was in bed. Me, Freddie and Dad were in the front room watching the Eurovision Song Contest. Dad had let me and Freddie curl up on the settee. I was lying in between Freddie’s legs, my head rested against his chest, and he was massaging the top of my arm. Prima Donna, ‘Love Enough for Two’ was the United Kingdom entry, but everyone wanted Ireland’s ‘What’s Another Year?’ by Johnny Logan to win. After Johnny had performed, Dad gave us five pounds to fetch steak and kidney pies and bottles of dandelion and burdock from the Saddler’s outdoor. We got back just as the voting started. Terry Wogan was trying to keep the excitement out of his voice as Ireland took the lead. Germany caught up, picking up twelves, Ireland picking up eights and sevens. Each country was phoning into the arena to have their calls answered on different coloured phones by the presenter on stage,
who looked relieved when the scores were delivered in English. Belgium cast the final set of votes. The camera panned to Johnny who held up three fingers to indicate what he needed. He got twelve.

  ‘Good song that,’ said Dad. ‘It deserved to win.’

  ‘Sax solo that did it,’ said Freddie.

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘The sax solo,’ he repeated. ‘Have you never heard that quote? “All they wanted was the sax”. It wins every time.’

  ‘I think I’ll make some tea,’ said Dad, getting up and walking into the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Freddie. ‘I can’t believe I said that in front of your dad.’

  I laughed. ‘He is over twenty-one, Freddie.’

  Freddie – January 1980

  I jumped off the number thirty-two bus from Bloxwich, blew on my hands and pulled up the collar on my full-length donkey jacket. I walked down Corporation Street, under the railway bridge, turned right onto Queen Street, past the Robin Hood pub, crossed over the road, up the ramp, through the only entrance to the sawmill, and into Mac’s posh-wood warehouse with its mouldings, skirting, architraves, dado rails, handrails and beadings. Mac looked up from his workbench, down at his watch and then back at me. ‘You’re late,’ he said.

  Mac: brother-in-law of the owners, Neville and Simon, colloquially known as snitch, grass, plant, arse-licker. He wore pull-on navy blue overalls, thick-framed spectacles and had a bald head with wisps of hair on each side, which he combed religiously. His Scottish drawl was confused with tinges of an Aynuk and Ayli Black Country accent.

  ‘The bus was late,’ I said, walking past him.

  He looked at his watch again. ‘Better hurry up before Neville catches you.’

  I nodded and carried on walking through his warehouse, slowing my pace, knowing he’d tell the owners and I’d be docked a quarter anyway. I walked into the open yard, past stacks and stacks of rough-sawn stock, pallets, floorboards, decking. I carried on up the ramp into the main warehouse, past the saws, the planers, the drills, the ladder leading up to the carpenters’ loft space, walking through sawdust, the smell of burned wood invading my nostrils, and into the shack – a wooden shed ten foot by eight foot with a couple of portable heaters, benches on either side and a pine dining table in the centre. It was the only refuge from the bitter cold of the open yard, the biting wind that blew in through the ever open warehouse doors, and the only hiding place from the owners.

  *

  Snap Break: Time to run my YOP-boy errand to the local café for breakfast, claiming my free piece of toast and Cadbury’s Creme Egg while I waited. Ten minutes later I was back at the shack, clutching greaseproof-paper sandwich bags with an order scribbled on each one in blue ink – bacon and egg with brown sauce, sausage and tomato, bacon with tomato sauce, sausage – variations on the same theme – everyone waiting for me, machines silenced, mugs of coffee and tea in front of them.

  Alan – A timber yard veteran, two missing finger tips on each hand, the ex-son-in-law of the owners whose wife had left him and his alcoholism ten years into their marriage. He wore a black Beanie hat and was always in recovery, always relapsing, always going on benders. His steroid-inflated face had tiny blue veins pulsing in its cheeks. He ate cheese and onion sandwiches for breakfast and refused to drink the machine coffee, bringing in his own filter coffee in a red flask, chucking the dregs out of his plastic cup at the end of break.

  Ronnie – Our pallet gun expert. He used to fill the yard with Ian Dury songs, changing the words to relieve the boredom – ‘Hit me with your shovel, Mick. Hit me. Hit me. Hit me with your rubber prick. Hit me. Hit me.’ He was heroin thin with a full body twitch, twitch, twitch, constantly knotting his legs together, folding and unfolding his arms, and chain-smoking filter-free Woodbine cigarettes. A Baggies fan, he loved Laurie Cunningham, Cyrille Regis, Willie Johnston – ‘They call him Willie, Willie. Faster than lightning’ – and told us tales of his bedroom – ‘Me and the wife had a good go last night. You’d have been proud of me, lads.’

  Kenny – AKA Doody. He had a Tom Selleck moustache, pursed his lips as he drew on a Benson and Hedges Silk Cut, screwing his eyes tight at the smoke, telling us tales of Northern Soul nights at the Camelot nightclub, singing Frank Wilson’s ‘Do I Love You? (Indeed I do)’ as he strutted around the yard talking to anyone who’d listen about martial arts films – ‘Did you know Bruce Lee died of an aspirin overdose?’

  The card game had started. They grabbed their orders off me and ripped open their bags.

  ‘You took your time,’ said Ronnie, still looking at his cards.

  I slid onto the bench and watched in silence.

  ‘Twist.’

  Three of clubs.

  ‘Twist.’

  Queen of Hearts.

  ‘Shit,’ said Ronnie, throwing his cards on the table. ‘I’m bust. This game’s fucking fixed.’

  ‘No,’ said Mac, gathering up the cards to start a reshuffle. ‘You’re an arrogant prick that pushes his luck too far.’

  ‘Piss off,’ said Ronnie, pulling his black donkey jacket tight and slumping back on the wooden bench.

  Alan nudged me and nodded down at the open page of his newspaper – page three of the Sun. ‘You don’t get many of them to the pound,’ he said.

  I looked at the picture.

  Donna, nineteen, from East London, was beaming out at the world, licking her lips. She was standing in front of set-up foliage. Her ambition was to deliver worldwide peace and love.

  I felt the flush start to rise from my neck.

  ‘Ah, bless,’ said Mac, still shuffling the cards. ‘He’s blushing again.’

  ‘You not had any yet, Freddie?’ said Ronnie. ‘I thought you had a woman now.’

  ‘He’s not still a virgin?’ said Kenny.

  They were all looking at me, cards lowered, newspapers folded.

  There was still ten minutes left of the break.

  Freddie’s Affair – November 2004

  It was the third Monday in the month and general staff meeting time in the day centre of Baytree House Care Home. ‘Smokers’ Breaks’ was the main item on the agenda.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Barbara, fiddling with the keyworker badge on her navy blue smock top, ‘but they get more breaks than us.’

  ‘And what about you and your chocolate?’ said Tim, a twenty-a-day Benson and Hedges chef, still in his whites and hat. ‘For every hour I work, you waddle around doing half as much.’

  ‘Piss off. For every ten minutes I have, you have fifteen. And you have twice as many to feed your filthy addiction.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Val, deputy manager, fake tan, bottle-topped glasses, red dress uniform. ‘There’s no need for that. I think we need to move on.’

  I looked around the room. There were three rows of chairs in a circle. Val was sitting in the middle. All of the seats were occupied, people sitting together in comrade groups – morning staff, afternoon staff, night staff, cleaners and kitchen staff. Most of the faces I recognised, but there were a couple of new reliefs at the back. A man, older, probably in his fifties, wire-thin body, broad smile, was chatting away to the woman next to him – the other new face. She looked about my age, a mole on her right cheek, brown eyes, black hair tumbling to the middle of her back. She caught me looking at her and smiled. I smiled back and nudged my afternoon co-worker, Dot. ‘Who’s that?’ I said.

  Dot leaned into me, conspiratorial fashion. ‘Poonam,’ she said. ‘She started last week. Done a couple of shifts so far.’ I met Poonam’s eyes again. She was still smiling at me.

  *

  First Date. Poonam and I were sitting on a cold, wet bench next to a lake. We were wearing big coats, woollen scarfs, and blowing out frosty breath. I poured steaming coffee from a two-cup Thermos flask into my Jamie Oliver slogan mugs and we sipped in silence, cuddling, holding hands, watching an obe
se Canadian goose as it waddled along the bank after his mate. There was a bevy of swans on the water, tugging gently at the grasses, their backsides pointing to the heavens, and a flock of small birds were hunting gnats, waiting in the trees, tranquil pouncing to secure their breakfast. It felt like the world was on pause. I leaned across and kissed Poonam gently on the lips. She pulled back, flashing an anxious look around the park.

  ‘It’s a bit public here, Freddie.’

  ‘It’s just a kiss.’

  Our eyes met. We held our gaze for a few seconds. She pulled me towards her and we kissed again.

  *

  Another Date. I reversed my Ford Focus into a parking bay on the far side of the empty pub car park, facing the exit, ready for a quick getaway. There was a wood behind me, lots of bird song. Bird song relaxed her, but the dog-walkers made her jittery. I looked at my watch. 9.05. I checked my phone. No text. A spasm of uncertainty turned my stomach. Fashionably late or not coming? I was never sure. My phone pinged. ‘Be there in twenty.’ I wanted to drive off, show her she couldn’t take me for granted, couldn’t treat me like a royal servant waiting to be nodded at by the Queen. ‘I was a princess in a former life,’ she’d say. ‘I had an army of lovers carrying me about on a red velvet sedan chair.’ I switched on the CD. Stevie Wonder’s ‘Songs in the Key of Life’. I switched off the CD. My brain felt full of syrup. The memory of her face dropped into my head. She was looking up at me from a pillow, her black hair covering the Egyptian white cotton. Wide eyes, moistened lips.

  There was a flash of lights. Poonam’s Citroën pulled centre stage into the car park. She parked up next to me. I got out of my car and walked around to open her driver’s door. She stared straight ahead, white-knuckled hands gripping the steering wheel. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, giving me a sideways look. ‘Have you checked the wood? He might be watching me.’ She turned out of the seat. I knelt down and hugged her to me. ‘All I ever need is for you to hold me,’ she said.