England Away

by John King

  – What’s that? Bill asked.

  – Wake up boy, Eddie said. You’ve only just got here and you’re nodding off. I was asking how many pints you think Barry can drink before he falls down drunk in the street.

  – Five or six, Bill ventured. Four’s enough for me these days.

  – You’re having more than that today, Eddie insisted. You’re out of practice, that’s all. You’re a soldier and you’ll do better than four bloody pints today, mate. You can’t let the squad down.

  Bill smiled. Eddie hadn’t changed a bit and his light-hearted bully boy routine never failed. Eddie would always be the corporal and take charge. He pointed you in the right direction and made sure you didn’t stray. There was no time to feel sorry for yourself when this man was sitting there with a pint in his hand. They were all in their seventies and Eddie was still doing the I-can-drink-more-than-you routine. Thing was, he knew he was doing it and loved winding Barry up, because the old sea dog took life too seriously. Eddie was acting like a young man because behind the wrinkles that’s what he was.

  Bill nodded and knew he was on for a session. He didn’t mind. It would do him good to get pissed and forget the cost for once. Even though he hadn’t served with these blokes during the war he felt a strong bond he couldn’t get from someone who’d never been involved. He felt no link with Bob West, despite the fact that he’d met Spitfire pilots and Lancaster crew men in the past and felt a connection. They’d flown nailed-together buckets, while West was part of a minimal-risk machine. He’d told Farrell about the controllers urging him on, telling him to kill the Iraqis. Farrell remembered the song the RAF sang in the Second World War – ‘the controller said how can you miss them, and I heed you to guess what I said, bring back, bring back, oh bring back my bomber and me, and me, bring back, bring back, bring back my bomber and me’. Farrell hummed it in his head. Same old story. And Eddie still drank more than his fair share.

  – We’ve got to make the most of these pint glasses while we can, Eddie said, snorting now. Before you know it those wankers in Brussels will be replacing them with some metric rubbish. Then you’ll end up with even less for your money.

  – It makes you sick what they’re doing, Barry moaned. They’re giving England up without a fight. Put one of those politicians in the front line and they’d run a mile before the shooting starts.

  – Nobody wants this Union, Eddie said, warming up. The German banks want to control Europe but the people themselves don’t care. Even the French don’t want to be part of the Union while the Scandinavians are showing some national pride for once. If every country admitted to their patriotism we wouldn’t have to worry. They want to crush our identity. They couldn’t do it during the war.

  – It’s the right-wing businessmen, Barry said.

  – It’s the fucking communists and socialists, Eddie insisted. They can’t stand us having an identity. All through the seventies they were trying to run down the economy, the unions going on strike over nothing. The Russians always had their eye on England. They knew that if they could get in and subvert us they could take over Europe. It’s the Bolshevik plan. International communism.

  Farrell doubted the Soviets had been that concerned with England. They had other problems and were busy crushing their own people, but it was true that the atmosphere in England had been very heavy during the seventies. That was how Thatcher managed to get a foothold. She’d promised the good old days and the chance for working people to better themselves, but at the same time had sold them short. She adopted policies which owed everything to rampant capitalism and nothing to the more casual, traditional approach. Farrell believed in a mixed economy. The Tories had set out to dismantle everything and sell it off to the highest bidder, thinking short term. He let Eddie go on, because although they disagreed on certain things, it was only talk. At least they both recognised the dangers of the EU.

  The end feeling was the same, and while he agreed with Eddie that there was an attempt to eradicate individual cultures and replace them with a bland shopping-mall-type society, he felt the biggest danger was the centralising of power. At the moment unelected bureaucrats were easing themselves into well-paid positions of power with smooth-talking liberal policies, but if the structure was in place that allowed this to happen then what was to stop the extreme right taking advantage? But he wasn’t going to get drawn into the argument. He had his views and that was enough.

  – The best sex I ever had was with a Japanese woman, Ted pointed out, blocking Eddie’s rant. I was sixty at the time and I met her at the car showroom. She was under fifty and well preserved. Bloody brilliant it was. I wonder what happened to her?

  Eddie stopped and looked at the Desert Rat.

  – Great, isn’t it? he said, laughing. Ted never changes. You try and get the boy thinking about how England is being destroyed from within and he’s rambling on about a Jap he had sex with a thousand years ago. He’ll die with a hard-on. There’s too many people thinking about women and having fun when they should be thinking about England. Come on Ted, it’s your round.

  – You’re the only one who’s finished.

  – Well hurry up then. We’ve still got time.

  – Alright, Eddie. I don’t know how you managed five children the amount you drink. You must have been pissed the whole time.

  Eddie frowned, wondering if Ted was taking the piss.

  – Every one’s a winner.

  – They’re good kids, Ted said. You did well there, Eddie.

  Farrell liked Ted. He was a decent man and had always been a sharp dresser. Farrell could see why women fell for his charm. He was like Leslie Phillips or Terry Thomas, but without the accent. He’d made money selling cars right after the war before running through a variety of vague jobs, eventually returning to cars. It was money in his pocket, but his big love was music. He loved jazz and spent his cash at Ronnie Scott’s and various other London clubs. He’d knocked around Eel Pie Island in the old days with Eddie. He could name all the jazz masters and knew a lot of London musicians. Alexis Korner was someone he admired. Ted was a smooth talker. He was wearing well and didn’t want any problems. He had no interest in politics. He said the sun in North Africa had burnt all that out of him. It was a time and a place and he’d answer any question thrown at him about Monty and Rommel. He lived in Shepherd’s Bush now and had developed an interest in pool. He played regularly in his local and earnt a few pounds extra from the kids hanging around the tables. Ted knew how to handle Eddie.

  – Come on, Eddie. Let’s get going. We’re paying too much in here. We should be drinking cheaply, at the army’s expense. They’ll serve a better pint in the club.

  Eddie nodded and the others saw their chance and drank up. You couldn’t argue with reasoning like that. Ted had a point. The army would do the business.

  Everything’s quiet now, heading east, the youth in the woods forgotten. Probably flagging down a tractor at this very moment. I see these blokes from Blackburn pass and go back a few years to the time we had a go at this club up there. We were travelling by train and after a brief row by the station the old bill made sure we got on the service back to London. Thing was, the train stopped ten minutes later, so we jumped off, had a drink, and caught another one straight back. It was easy enough to filter off and mob up in this pub. A shitty boozer with ten or so brain-dead punters dribbling into their bitter. They soon fucked off. The landlord didn’t care if he was serving cockneys or Pakis, because this was pay day and he wasn’t about to phone the old bill and complain about the tenners filling his till. He didn’t give a fuck and we drank in peace and quiet, then headed to this club Harris knew about. There were fifty of us and it was early for a club, but we knew there’d be some chaps there as this was supposed to be where this particular firm drank.

  We didn’t bother paying. Facelift took out one bouncer, and a combination of Harris and Black John did the other. The rest of the lads smashed the big glass windows, nodded to the girl taking money,
asking how much for a blow job love, and we were straight down the corridor and onto the dancefloor. We slapped anyone who didn’t shift and it didn’t take long for Blackburn to sort themselves out. It was a disco with fairy lights, but was playing the same fire-alarm techno all these places run on. Don’t imagine there was much ecstasy in this place though. These Blackburn were game enough and it was more or less equal numbers. Thing was, we didn’t want to stay too late because we still had a train to catch and we were making the most of our surprise visit. Harris checked his watch and was running things like it was a commando raid. Don’t think they could believe their eyes. They’ve relaxed and kicked back, and suddenly there’s a Chelsea mob in their front garden. We had to work fast and get back to the station for the London service.

  It was fucking great because the drumbeats kept going and the lights continued flashing, and after working through the nearest blokes and announcing our presence we went into the bar where all these fat cunts were getting pissed. They were worse off than Chelsea and though they gave it a go they didn’t have a chance. We’d kept our heads and were acting sober. Turned over the bar, robbed the till, and Harris even let off some tear gas as we made our withdrawal. It was a clean operation and looked like a good result, but things don’t always run to plan. When we went back to the station there was a pub full of locals and the snotty-nosed kids begging crisps outside filled them in. The drinkers inside piled out and there was this battle through to the station. There were a few black eyes and cuts on the platform, but nothing too serious, because this was Saturday night on the piss and just like any other Saturday night punch-up. The old bill had turned up by now and everything quietened down as BR pulled in and took us home in comfort.

  Every club tells a story. Like that time at Southampton before the grounds were all-seater. There were nine or ten nutters who went in the Southampton end and just piled in five minutes before kick-off. Knew they were going to get battered but didn’t give a fuck. Went in the home end, stood nice and quiet, then bang. Just went mental. Now those blokes were hard as nails, and it’s always stuck in my mind. Never knew who they were, but that’s Casualty behaviour. Knowing you’re going to get done. Zero life expectancy. Southampton were nothing special, but doing something like that right against the odds shows how serious some blokes can be. It takes a lot of courage. The old bill waded in and these Chelsea boys trotted back down the middle of the pitch to a standing ovation from the four thousand Chelsea at the opposite end.

  Back in the sixties and seventies the main aim was to take the home end, but it died out in the eighties with better policing and the nineties has seen the whole thing shift again. Those blokes were left to jog down the middle of the pitch whereas today they’d be filmed and indexed and banged up for six months. Every paper in the country would run their pictures and every wanker with a column or slot on the telly would be coining it on their behalf. We were young hooligans singing LOYAL SUPPORTERS while down the side there was what passed for a Southampton crew, and these Chelsea boys saw them, ran over and piled in. This set the main mob of Chelsea trying to get over the fences, but the old bill were ready. Somehow those blokes came out alive and it set the tone for the day.

  After the game Chelsea went for the old bill. One of the funniest things I ever saw was this copper getting a kicking and this bonehead went over and pulled a plank from the remains of a wooden fence that Chelsea had demolished and been using for ammunition. He worked the plank out and checked the weight. Made sure it felt right. Ran over to the copper who was alone now and trying to get up, and broke it over his head. Real silent movie routine with a Keystone Cop getting his skull bruised. The bloke got ready for a second swing but this woman in a club scarf ran over and slapped him. Told him to fuck off and leave the policeman alone. The bonehead shrugged and walked back into the main Chelsea mob which was busy throwing everything they could at the line of coppers behind the copper on the ground. Chelsea were mad that day and the old bill couldn’t cope. It must’ve gone on for half an hour before we moved towards the town centre.

  I think about the carriage and the people travelling with England. There’s so many stories to tell. The major rows, small-time vandalism and peaceful Saturday afternoon football. It all merges together eventually. But that’s domestic. This is England on tour and the English know how to enjoy themselves. We’re living in the moment, rooted in the past. A volunteer army marching into the sunset.

  Eddie lined the boys up and did a quick head count. One, two, three, four. All present and correct and no-one forgotten in the pub bogs. When the traffic stalled he led them across the road. Eddie believed in leading from the front and Ted pointed out that this was the route Charles II took when he rode down to ride Nell Gwyn. The rest of the troops laughed as he pointed out that royalty knew how to have a good time with the nags. They were all enjoying themselves, and that included Barry. Once safely across the street, Eddie peeled away towards the Duke of York’s. Bill had the others line up behind Eddie and get in step with their leader. The men were marching in a column now – left, right, left, right – with the corporal at the front unaware of the battalion behind. All he needed was a Union Jack or some bagpipes to pipe the boys through the gate.

  Eddie was leading the lads to the Battle of the Bulge, with his bulging beer gut out in front doing the job of the sappers. He was defeating the last great German offensive – the war of attrition lager was waging against the great English pint – with a jug of best bitter. Eddie gave his full support to the Ulstermen resisting union with the Papists, and fully believed that the Apprentice Boys should be allowed to march whenever and wherever they wished, but in the war against lager he was even prepared to stretch to a Fenian pint, whether it was Guinness or Murphy’s. He didn’t care about religion and had mates who were Catholic, but where there was a Union Jack flying Eddie would stand shoulder to shoulder with its defenders. They were all patriots, but Eddie wore his flag on his sleeve. As they approached the Duke of York’s he looked behind and saw the boys mucking about. He fell in with the joke and told them to break rank and prepare for some well-deserved leave. Ted would organise the Egyptian girls.

  The police at the gate checked their names and let the four ex-soldiers through, and when they turned left in the car park the noise of the King’s Road faded away. It was a short walk over an empty square to their destination. There were some cars and a couple of army jeeps, but otherwise the runway was clear. Eddie pointed out his old Rover and carried on. The rest of the boys were impressed by the way the car had been maintained, and were mindful of the fact that they’d arrived by public transport. Eddie had the officer mentality and it was only his working-class origins that had stopped him progressing through the ranks.

  Farrell knew Eddie would laugh such a remark off. He believed in the status quo and the honesty of the establishment. There was no point arguing with Eddie, trying to tell him that if it hadn’t been for blatant class prejudice he could have become a major, or better. What was the point anyway? Eddie was happy and had no sense of injustice. He accepted his place in the pecking order and was content.

  – Hurry up, you lazy buggers, a voice boomed. The bar’s almost dry.

  Farrell looked up and saw a grey head leaning out of a second floor window. Sunlight caught the glass and lit the skin, the man’s hair turning white. The head looked as though it was glistening and for some reason Bill contrasted it with a youthful Barry struggling in the Atlantic, hanging onto a mast in an oil slick, skin peeled from his back, the oil burning. He thought of Barry’s legs dangling under the surface and saw the Great Barrier Reef, Vince reassuring his granddad that the sharks wouldn’t come across the coral. No wonder Barry was miserable, torpedoed and left in the sea thousands of miles from home. The thing was, he’d gone back. Then Farrell saw Bob West and imagined him leaving The Unity and returning home. He saw the RAF pilot rigging up a noose and standing there thinking the thing through. Cold and methodical he kicked the chair away. His legs star
ted to jerk. Piss ran down his skin as he struggled, limbs under the water, eventually sucked through space and into some kind of nightmare. Farrell saw West in limbo, Christian and Muslim war dead manoeuvring for space reinventing themselves to fit in with the new order. But West was young and had so much to live for once he sorted himself out. Farrell knew you had no control over other people. He could listen and offer an opinion, but everyone went their own way in the end.

  – That’s the bar, Ted told him. They’ll all be in there, making their pensions stretch and enjoying the company. That’s one of the best things about these get-togethers. When you’re younger everyone else is young as well, but now we’re on our own. Get inside that bar and the outside world vanishes. It’s like going home in a way. That’s the bar for you.

  – And that’s Dave Horning, Barry said. He’s probably drunk already. He can’t drink as much as Eddie, but he can hold his beer. Me, I can’t keep up any more. I spend too much time recovering. It’s not like the old days. When you don’t know whether the next day’s your last you want to make sure you feel your best if you wake up in the morning.

  – Shut up, you bloody misery, Ted said. You’re the same as you were when I met you. You’ve always been old.

  Barry smiled because he knew Ted had a point, whereas Ted had always been young. Farrell smiled as well, but was thinking hard because he recognised Horning from somewhere. He looked again and saw the grey head disappear inside, window swinging back against the brick and losing the sun. The name came back suddenly and it was a shock that slowed him down. They’d called Horning something else all those years ago. His name was Mangler then. It was a turn up for the books, and Farrell felt uneasy.

  He flashed back to Mangler charging across the sand calling the men facing them every name under the sun. They’d lived and fought together for a long time, but Mangler had always been separate from the others. He thought about the bayonet and the German prisoner Mangler had threatened to castrate. It was so long ago now and Farrell had to push his memory to remember the look on the German’s face. He could see the scene but for a few seconds the face was blank, then it returned, full of terror. Somehow mutilation and torture seemed worse than death. Poor old Billy Walsh. The worst thing that could happen to a man was to have his balls blown off, or taken by a bayonet. War was a sickness and Farrell had to remind himself he was here for the drink, food and company. He hadn’t seen Mangler since they’d been demobbed. No, he told a lie. He’d seen him once.