by Miles Gibson
7
The year Frank became eighteen the Hercules Cafe had reached the peak of its popularity. At lunchtimes there were queues at the door for soup and sandwiches. At night the tables were always crowded. Olive, perched on a high stool behind the glass cabinet, sat all day and glowered at the customers, Veronica worked the tables. Frank cooked in the kitchen. Gilbert, triumphant, bustled and bullied and dreamed of the Hercules Hamburger Chain. The future seemed secure until, one morning in early September, a stranger walked into the cafe. He was a large man in a small brown suit and carried a scuffed leather briefcase. He sat down at an empty table and winked at Olive. He had yellow eyes and a small, hooked nose like a cashew nut.
‘What have you got that’s good and hot?’ he demanded when Veronica arrived to serve him. He pulled a tobacco tin from his pocket and started to roll himself a cigarette.
‘Egg, bacon, bean, sausage. Hamburger. Fishburger. Beanburger. Cheeseburger. Pork pie. Steak pie. What d’you want?’ said Veronica.
He sighed, threw back his head and stared softly at the ceiling. ‘A clean bed, a strong drink and the love of a good woman.’
‘White or brown bread?’ said Veronica.
‘Coffee and doughnuts.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Veronica as she scribbled the order into her pad.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. He poked the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Let me have a look at your legs.’ His hand shot out and flicked up her skirt. Veronica squealed and danced across the floor.
‘Touch me again and I’ll knock your teeth out,’ she snarled.
‘You’re too late,’ he said. His fingers flew to his mouth and plucked out a set of square, china teeth. He placed them on the table beside his knife and fork. Olive shouted for Gilbert.
What happened next was so unexpected that Olive nearly fell off her stool. Gilbert thundered from the kitchen with a broom in his fist and murder in his heart. But when he saw the stranger he dropped the weapon and threw out his arms in surprise.
‘Parker!’ he laughed. ‘It’s Parker!’
‘Gilbert Firestone!’ howled Parker as he jumped to his feet. ‘I thought you were dead.’
‘I can’t find the time,’ confessed Gilbert.
‘Can you find the time for a drink?’ asked Parker, scooping up his teeth.
‘Time enough,’ cried Gilbert.
And without wasting another moment the two men clasped arms and swaggered into the street.
‘Where’s Gilbert?’ shouted Frank from the kitchen. ‘There’s something wrong with the freezer.’
‘He’s gone!’ gasped Olive. ‘He just walked out.’ Frank stumbled into the dining room and wiped the hair from his eyes.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Olive. ‘He found one of his old cronies.’ She was hunched on her stool, knees up, head down, eyes staring at the open door. ‘He just walked out.’
Frank turned impatiently to Veronica. ‘Where did they go?’ he demanded.
‘I hope they’ve gone to Hell,’ she snarled and stalked away.
Ten minutes later the two men were comfortably established in the Armistice Bar at the Volunteer. It was a long, damp hall of stained glass and smudged brass. The walls had been painted with brown enamel. The floors were polished with beer. It was dark, silent and as cold as a monastery: a place where men could sit in peace and reflect upon the storms of the world. Gilbert drank Guinness. Parker drank whisky laced with ginger wine.
‘Do you remember the Coronation Hotel?’ asked Gilbert, wiping a fleck of froth from his chin. ‘Paddington. Sam Pilchard was breakfast and I was dinner. Brown soup and mutton stew. It was mostly bones and potatoes. No food after the war. Some nights it was so cold we slept in the kitchen under the ovens.’
‘A long time ago,’ sighed Parker with the ghost of a smile. The light from the window stained his face with a diamond pattern of red and green shadows. ‘When was it? Nineteen hundred and fifty something. 1950. Yes. There was the sugar ration, I remember that. I never liked the Coronation. There were always too many stairs.’
‘You were the head waiter – you didn’t have to think about stairs.’
‘Yes, I was the head waiter. But the maids, you’ll remember, slept in the attic.’
‘Ah, there was a maid – large girl – generous nature – now what was her name?’
‘Annie. Mouth like a howitzer. Bum as big as a Welsh pony.’
‘Annie,’ said Gilbert. He shook his head. Whatever happened to Annie? He picked up his glass and stared wistfully into his Guinness.
‘My God, but she wanted some attention. It was room service three times a week. Regular as clockwork,’ grinned Parker. He winked and tapped his cashew nut.
‘She gave Sam a pair of her knickers for his birthday. Expensive. Nylon. Soaked to the frills in perfume.’
‘Did he wear ’em?’
‘No. He gave them to me. I used them as a bouquet garni to give the soup some flavour.’
‘There were some fine antics and no mistake,’ said Parker. He belched and pulled his jacket open to let his belly breathe. ‘Do you remember Mary?’
‘Mary?’
‘A tiny scrap of a girl. Green eyes. Red nose. She liked to sing hymns.’
‘I don’t remember.’
Parker scratched his scalp and found the cigarette tucked behind his ear. He examined it closely and put it in his mouth. ‘Yes,’ he said, striking a match and sucking at the smoke. ‘The manager caught her stealing bread and stopped her wages for a month.’
‘They were hard times.’
‘He was a hard man. But we fixed him. One night he ordered a special supper. He was entertaining some fancy woman. A nasty piece of work called Thelma Millet. She was a part-time tart from the Balls Pond Road. But he didn’t know it. He thought she was a countess. Anyway, he wanted the best of everything sent to his room. So when it was ready and you were straining the vegetables Sam took Mary into the pantry and made her piddle in the gravy boat.’
‘No!’
‘I’ll never forget it. I served that dinner with particular pride. There were chops, carrots, turnips, dumplings and all of it swimming in Mary’s own gravy.’ Parker laughed. He laughed until he choked and had coughed himself black. He yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and spat an oyster into the rag.
Gilbert turned his eyes away. He looks old. What happened? Yesterday he was chasing Annie. Today he looks ready to drop down dead.
‘It all changed when you and Sam walked out,’ said Parker when he had recovered his breath.
‘The world changed,’ said Gilbert.
‘Annie married a motor mechanic. I went to work at the Gladstone. But it wasn’t the same. I went on the road in ’59. Salesman. Yes. I’ve sold everything in my time. Pots, pans, soaps, brushes, liver salts for the bilious woman, bicycles for the common man. Encyclopedias are the worst. It’s the weight. These days I travel in biscuits. Placebo Slim Bakes. It’s a biscuit with nothing in it. No starch, calories, vitamins, minerals. Nothing. No nutrition guaranteed. Fat women love ’em. Doctors recommend ’em. If you ate nothing but these biscuits you’d starve to death. Isn’t that wonderful? That’s science. They cost nothing to produce, sell for a fortune and every woman thinks she needs them. This briefcase is full of ’em. And it’s light, light as a feather. Here. Take some home for the wife.’ He wrenched open the scuffed leather bag and pulled out a packet of biscuits which he rolled across the table to Gilbert.
‘Thanks,’ said Gilbert, pushing the packet into his pocket. ‘Olive likes the odd biscuit.’
‘It’s a marvel to think you married,’ chortled Parker, shaking his head.
‘It’s not easy,’ growled Gilbert. ‘You think you’re going for beer and skittles and you wake up to find that it’s all blood and sawdust.’
‘Milk puddings,’ said Parker. ‘That’s marriage. Milk puddings and no crusts on your sandwiches. Warm slippers and a bum to finger in front of the fire
.’
‘You can’t imagine,’ said Gilbert darkly, drowning the sorrow in Guinness.
‘It makes a man soft,’ said Parker.
‘I can still look after myself. Sam and me went to France after the Coronation,’ Gilbert reminded him. ‘We worked our way down to Africa.’
‘A remarkable journey,’ admitted Parker.
‘Yes,’ said Gilbert. ‘We were in Algeria when it turned nasty so we pushed across to Morocco and down the West Coast.’
‘You must have seen some sights,’ nodded Parker, cigarette wagging, eyes closed against the smoke.
‘The birth of nations. The end of empires,’ said Gilbert, raising his glass. ‘They were dangerous times. We boiled rice for beggars and the very next day they were kings.’
‘You had to be careful,’ said Parker, sucking his cigarette.
Gilbert nodded and dreamed. ‘We sold crocodile stew on the Congo riverboats for a couple of seasons.’
‘No.’
‘It’s true.’
‘Fancy.’
‘When we grew tired of the river we went into the forest and learned to brew palm wine. We might have made a fortune but we couldn’t find the bottles.’
‘There was always a snag in the best of schemes,’ said Parker. ‘Is that why you came home?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Gilbert.
‘It’s a grand cafe,’ suggested Parker helpfully.
‘I’m comfortable,’ said Gilbert. ‘We work hard. I can’t complain.’ The Guinness had started to warm his blood. He closed his eyes. His feet floated above the floor.
‘And you don’t get notions to travel again?’
‘I’m comfortable,’ said Gilbert. He shrugged. Olive hates the idea of travel. The last time she left home was during the war. Evacuated. She must have been eight, nine years old. A frightened, skinny girl with a label tied to her coat. Sandwich in her pocket. Gas mask in a brown cardboard box. Thousands of them at Waterloo Station. Trains steaming. Sirens wailing. Crushed against the carriage windows, watching the rain sweep empty fields. When the train reached the end of the line she was offered, door to door, until someone gave her a bed. Forced to live among strangers. Fed on porridge and cocoa.
‘A man needs roots,’ said Parker. ‘Do you remember Lucky Gordon, the baker with the business on the Edgware Road?’
‘The one with the wife who went mad?’
‘No, that was Harper.’
‘His wife went mad and tried to cut her throat.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t his wife. We found out later that he lived with his sister.’
‘They slept in the same bed,’ protested Gilbert. ‘They had an idiot son that was born with no eyes. They wrote about it in the Daily Sketch.’
‘Harper,’ confirmed Parker. ‘Lucky Gordon was a big Scotchman with tattooed hands and an old-fashioned walrus moustache.’
‘I remember him. Yes. He used to suck it when he was angry.’
‘That’s right,’ said Parker. ‘Stuck his head in the oven. No family. No prospects. No roots. No one went to the funeral.’
‘Sam had no roots,’ said Gilbert. ‘I heard he died in Ghana during the Independence celebrations of ’57. But a few months later he wrote from Togo. He stayed there for a few years and then, after Sylvanus Olympio was murdered in ’63 he went to Nigeria. I don’t know. I lost touch. The last time I heard he was in Bilharzia. He could be dead.’
‘Olympio?’ said Parker, sniffing the air. ‘That rings a bell. Wasn’t he at the Coronation?’
‘No,’ growled Gilbert impatiently.
‘He was a little Italian,’ insisted Parker. ‘Wore a wig and lifts in his shoes.’
‘Olympio was the ruler of Togo after the French,’ said Gilbert.
‘Ah,’ said Parker, losing interest. ‘No, I never met him.’
‘And what happened to Sam?’ asked Gilbert sadly.
‘That’s easy,’ said Parker. ‘I’ll give you his address.’
Gilbert banged his Guinness against the table. ‘You know where to find him?’
‘Yes,’ said Parker.
‘Where?’ shouted Gilbert.
‘He’s here,’ said Parker, slapping his pockets. ‘Where? I’ve lost him,’ he frowned. ‘No, I think he’s in my briefcase. I never like to lose a friend.’ He pulled an address book from the biscuits, found a pencil and scribbled on a scrap of yellow paper.
‘Have you heard from him? Does he write to you?’ demanded Gilbert. He was too excited to read the address. Wait. Look. Something, something, Bilharzia. Yes. He was right. The old dog was still alive.
‘I tried to sell him Bibles for the heathen but he wasn’t interested. When was it? I can’t remember. I think it was after the encyclopedias.’ He drained his glass and whistled wetly through his teeth. ‘This whisky tastes like Mary’s own gravy. Finish your drink and we’ll go across to the Hungry Fiddler.’
‘I ought to get back for lunch,’ wheezed Gilbert, trying to pull himself free of the chair. Crocodile stew on a bed of cassava. Boiled yams and sweet potatoes. Smoked mudfish. Dust and sunlight. The smell burning your nostrils. The heat melting the prongs on your fork.
‘You can have lunch at the Hungry Fiddler,’ said Parker. ‘We’ll order the Business Special. You’ll enjoy that.’ He leaned forward and blew smoke into Gilbert’s ear. ‘The girls who serve the food walk around with their mammies hanging out,’ he whispered.
‘What’s the time?’ frowned Gilbert. He pulled at his sleeve, searching in vain for a wristwatch.
‘Mammies!’ hissed Parker. He clawed at the front of his shirt and tweaked his nipples.
‘While you’re sitting at the table?’ frowned Gilbert.
Parker nodded and grinned. ‘Dangle while they serve the soup. Mammies everywhere. You need eyes in the back of your head.’
Gilbert blinked and tried to gather his thoughts. ‘They walk around in the nude?’
‘No, they’re not nude,’ scoffed Parker. You wouldn’t want ’em stark bollock naked while you’re stuffing yourself with pork and cabbage. They wear little aprons. It’s very tasteful. Artistic.’
‘How do you know about it?’
‘It’s a club,’ explained Parker. ‘I know all the clubs. The Pillow. The Garter. The Nunnery. There’s a lot of entertaining in my game. A lot of business done in the dark. You’d be surprised.’
‘Do they serve steamed pudding?’
‘Bugger the pudding,’ said Parker. He laughed abruptly, turned on Gilbert and playfully poked his stomach. ‘I’ll introduce you to Maureen. She runs it. Quiet girl. Good family. Educated. Mammies hang like a couple of fruit bats.’
‘A celebration!’ roared Gilbert.
‘That’s the spirit.’
‘We’ll drink until we swell like balloons,’ boomed Gilbert.
‘After lunch we can go down to Paddington.’
‘Search out the old Coronation.’
‘Puke on the carpet.’
‘Piddle into the gravy boats.’
* * *
Frank was in bed with the women of Wobble.
He knew it was going to be a long night from the moment that Mandy had entered the room. She was wearing a black rubber playsuit. The tall blonde smiled at him with a wicked gleam in her big round pale blue eyes. Her lovely young face was flushed. Her long golden hair was loose. He saw she was naked under her playsuit. ‘I’ve been watching you,’ she said as she paused to unleash the gorgeous globes of her firm yet enormous breasts. ‘And I’m going to teach you a lesson.’ The sensational sensitive pert pink nipples stiffened deliciously as she cupped the luscious white orbs with her hands and began to continued on page 27.
Frank flicked the pages. The ancient magazine had grown so tattered that the staples had worn through the pages. He gathered the loose edges and carefully pulled them together.
Shandy came into the room, pulled off her school blazer and let it fall to the ground. ‘You’ve been watching me,’ she smiled with a cheeky toss o
f her pigtails. ‘Now you’re going to follow a lesson.’ While he watched, she peeled the navy blue skirt over her long golden thighs to display the soft silky mounds of her hot plump sweet innocent young buttocks. A small gasp of pleasure escaped from his mouth as she wriggled to the bed and let his hands explore the pert pink continued on page 32.
Frank grinned and settled deeper into his pillow, the blanket drawn beneath his chin.
Sandy locked the door with the stolen key and turned around to face him. He looked dangerous. The big brunette stopped laughing and gasped in startled surprise. Her dark brown eyes were open wide. She began to tremble with excitement. ‘I’ve been following you,’ she sizzled as he roughly unbuckled the full force of the massive breasts that were bulging proudly from the red satin corset. ‘And I want you to teach me a lesson.’ The long delicate nut-brown nipples suddenly stiffened as he weighed the pendulous teats in his hands continued on page 35.
Frank moaned and rattled the pages.
Brandy kicked open the door and strutted proudly into the room. Her green eyes flashed with excitement. She was stripped to her peek-a-boo scanties. She smiled as he squeezed both gigantic bouncing breasts in her hands. ‘You’ve been watching me,’ she said and pulled what was left of the scanties over her full fat hot ripe pale pink thighs to reveal the glorious globes of her eager quivering…
Frank blinked, slapped shut the magazine and tried to stuff it under the sheets.
Olive opened the door and shuffled slowly into the room. She was wearing pyjamas, a dressing gown and gloves. Her eyes glittered and her nose looked raw.
‘What are you reading?’ she asked without interest.
‘Nothing!’ barked Frank.
‘You’ll go blind,’ she sniffed. ‘All that reading ruins your eyes.’ She sat down at the foot of the bed and stared at him mournfully.
‘What’s the time?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where’s Gilbert? Has he come home?’
‘No.’
Frank was silent for a moment. ‘Would you like a hot drink?’ he asked, shivering, pulling his knees beneath his chin, trying to work Wobble under the bedclothes.