Tales from Soho

by David Barry

  ‘And then, no doubt,’ I said, ‘she came and sat with you, gave you her life story, and cadged drinks from you.’

  ‘No, no. It wasn’t like that at all. You don’t understand. She was beautiful. She was at peace with herself. Her face may have been lined and wrinkled with age, but her bone structure... I could see that as a young girl she must have been a beauty. In a way she still was. She just sat there quietly, enjoying her beer and reading a book. Which brings me to the most fascinating part.’

  He paused dramatically, hungry for my appreciation of what seemed a rather dull story. I was dying to glance at my watch, but didn’t dare for fear of upsetting him. I could tell it was going to be a long, involved story and I wondered how on earth I could grab something to eat without appearing rude.

  ‘Go on,’ was all I could manage by way of encouragement.

  ‘It’s the book she was reading. She was reading Rupert Brooke’s poetry.’

  He looked triumphant, having thrown this world shattering morsel of news at me. I couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘There must be more than that,’ I said.

  He picked up his beer, took a quick swallow, then placed the glass carefully on a beer mat. He returned my smile, and I remember thinking at the time that here was a new Peter. He was more confident, sure of himself, and quite self indulgent as he relived his story. And when he spoke, his voice had a slight tremor of excitement.

  ‘There’s much more than that. You were so wrong when you jumped to the conclusion that she came and sat next to me to pester me. It was the other way round. I felt myself drawn to her. I wanted to talk to her but felt too tongue-tied. Eventually, she looked up again from her Rupert Brooke and I found myself quoting aloud: “If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England”. And as soon as I’d said it I felt foolish. But she gave me a beautiful smile and I felt a warm, helpless glow, as if a bond had been formed between us, and we were the only couple in that scruffy pub. And I felt... ’

  He broke off as a deep blush spread over his face. He was back to his usual shy self. When he picked up his pint, I noticed his hand shook. He put it down without taking a drink, determined to finish his story.

  ‘The thing is,’ he began cautiously, ‘she must have been in her eighties, but I felt... I felt sexually aroused by her.’

  I was shocked by this confession and it totally threw me. Unable to think of an appropriate response, I glanced towards the food counter and took the easy way out.

  ‘You hungry?’ I asked.

  His eyes flashed with anger. ‘Look! Let me finish. You don’t understand. She was beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, but her age compared to yours.’

  ‘It didn’t seem to matter. She was a young girl in the body of an old woman. It’s hard to explain.’

  He was right. It was hard to comprehend. Was Peter having an affair with an octogenarian? Was that what he was trying to tell me? A picture of two naked writhing bodies burst into my mind, one young and lily-white, the other grey and wrinkled and decaying, wrestling together liked the gnarled tentacles and roots of some deformed tree. I shivered involuntarily and hoped Peter hadn’t noticed.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked him after a pause.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Nothing happened.’

  I’m not sure whether I was relieved or disappointed at this anticlimactic part of his tale. It was then I noticed I’d been digging a thumbnail into a corner of the plastic seat and had made a hole in it and some of the stuffing was coming out. I placed both hands on the table then raised my pint. But Peter had another shock to deliver.

  ‘When I say nothing happened, I mean nothing happened our first night together. In fact we hardly spoke to each other, except for my sententious acknowledgement of the book she was reading.’

  I had to admit, I was now over the initial shock, and couldn’t have cared less about the food or dashing back to work. I was well and truly hooked.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why you were attracted to her,’ I suggested. ‘The poetry.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that was one very good reason. Anyway, I returned to the pub on the following night and there she was, sitting at the same table. And do you know what she was reading this time? The poetry of Siegfried Sassoon.’

  He looked delighted with this revelation, as if it was the unravelling of a great mystery. I gave him a blank stare.

  ‘Well,’ he continued a little breathlessly now,’ I wanted to speak to her - desperately. But I couldn’t. I felt like... like a lover reduced to a helpless invertebrate, wanting to please her but feeling I might ruin things if I tried too hard. It was the next night I managed to pluck up enough courage - especially when I saw what she was reading this time. She was reading the poems of Wilfred Owen!’

  I began to think this was the start of an obsessive madness, and he had stumbled upon some sort of soul-mate. Someone who shared the same obsession to the exclusion of all else.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he cried. ‘Don’t you see?’

  So carried away was Peter, several people in the pub watched us with interest. I leaned forward and lowered my voice, hoping he would follow suit. ‘I see the common denominator,’ I said. ‘They are all Great War poets.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he shouted, and smacked his hand on the table.

  ‘Er - I think you’d better lower your voice. People are staring at us now.’

  He looked to left and right, but seemed not to notice anyone, then straight back at me. He must have absorbed what I said because he spoke quietly, although his voice had lost none of its excitement, suppressed now with a kind of dog-panting urgency.

  ‘I asked her why the Great War poets and she told me her life story. Her lover was killed in the Battle of Verdun on 22 February, 1916. They were both passionately fond of poetry. Their love was so great that... that she has mourned him ever since.’

  ‘For sixty-five years?’

  Peter nodded vehemently. ‘Yes, she talks about him as if one day he’s going to return. She remembers every detail of their brief time together as if there was nothing between then and now. No time or space between.’ He frowned suddenly, puzzled and worried about something.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked him.

  ‘It’s only just struck me. That scruffy pub is called the Welsh Fusilier and that was her lover’s regiment.’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing remarkable about that,’ I said. ‘I expect she deliberately sought out the pub for that very reason.’

  Peter’s eyes glazed over and there were deep lines of concentration on his forehead, like when he composed his poems. He shivered visibly, as if a gust of cold air had blown into the bar, although the door remained shut and the atmosphere was warm and bibulous.

  ‘So much of a coincidence,’ he muttered softly.

  ‘What is?’

  When he looked at me, I saw fear in his eyes, dark and introspective.

  ‘After we’d had our conversation, and I heard her sad story, I got up and was about to leave when she said: “I’m glad we found each other.” Not glad we met each other, but “glad we found each other”.’

  I laughed, partly out of nervousness and partly to try to get him to snap out of his weird mood into which he was sinking.

  ‘I can see this will become an epic poem,’ I joked.

  He gave me a tolerant smile and then drifted off again. I found myself losing patience and began thinking about lunch again. At least I still had time to buy a sandwich and take it back to the office. I pushed my chair back from the table, preparing to leave.

  ‘Are you seeing her tonight?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘No.’ He seemed disappointed. ‘I’ve got to meet that journalist who wants to interview me about my latest collection.’

  ‘That�
��s fantastic. I can see this latest book of yours will go for another printing in less than a year. And her magazine is widely read and admired.’

  He nodded but his eyes were distant, and I could tell he was still thinking about the old woman. Just as I became enthusiastic about the magazine, so he became sullen and introverted, as if I was putting the wrong emphasis on the mood of our meeting. Well, to hell with you, I thought, and looked pointedly at my watch.

  ‘I suppose you’ve got to get back to work,’ he sighed.

  ‘I must,’ I said, immediately regretting the sharpness of my tone.

  I caught a flickering and empty look before he lowered his eyes, grabbed his pint glass and emptied it. He must have known I could never truly understand whatever it was he felt for the old woman.

  I stood up and offered him a weak, apologetic smile. He gave me a wistful smile in return and I could tell we would end our meeting politely, like two well-mannered strangers.

  In the street outside, his behaviour was uncharacteristic. Usually he hated goodbyes, would give a cursory wave without looking in my direction, and stride off purposefully. But this time he stared at me for a long time, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  ‘She’s waited all this time, you see,’ he explained, like a little boy giving a teacher an excuse.

  ‘For you?’ I questioned.

  He didn’t, or couldn’t, answer. His eyes had dissolved into the distance again, lost and confused.

  ‘I expect you’re looking forward to seeing her again tomorrow night.’

  Obviously I had said the very thing he wanted to hear because he smiled at me. Suddenly everything was fine between us, as though all along he had been soliciting my approval. His eyes brightened and he gave me a tiny nod before turning and striding off along Broadwick Street. I watched him go, his old suede boots jerking clumsily at right angles, like an ungainly ballet dancer, and his shoulders hunched.

  It was the last I saw of him. He was killed two nights later, on his way to meet the old lady at the Welsh Fusilier. A meeting that was so like a lover’s tryst.

  As I stood in Highgate Cemetery staring at his gravestone eight weeks after his death, thinking about his relationship with the strange old woman and his tragic murder, I heard the crunch of footsteps on gravel as someone walked by. It brought me back to reality and I decided it was time to move on and lay his ghost to rest. So I turned away, but before walking on I looked back over my shoulder and gave his grave a final regretful glance. That was when a wave of awareness rose inside me and I was engulfed in an ecstasy of discovery. Peter had been killed on 22 February, on exactly the same date as the old woman’s lover in the Battle of Verdun, but sixty-five years later. The date flashed from the headstone like a neon sign. How had I missed it before this? And what did it mean? It was merely a coincidence, I protested to myself. And so what? We have plenty of those in the space of a year. And yet this discovery, coupled with what Peter told me about the old woman, titillated and teased, and I felt as I do when I wake up thirsty in the night to find I’ve only got one sip of water left in my bedside glass. In spite of my scepticism, I was intrigued enough not to dismiss the coincidence of the dates out of hand. My wife was away for the weekend, and on an impulse I decided to pay the Welsh Fusilier a visit. I looked up the address in the telephone directory, and later that same morning I walked as far as Archway, and when I spotted a black cab for hire, I hailed it - again acting impulsively - instead of making the much cheaper, and no doubt quicker, journey on the Northern Line.

  I was excited at the prospect of meeting the old woman. I wanted to let her know about Peter, and share my discovery of the coincidence with her. And then the thought occurred to me that she wouldn’t know about his death. He had only met her three times, and all she would know of their arrangement to meet on that fateful day was that he hadn’t shown up. I was to be the bearer of bad news and I began to have doubts. Was I making a terrible mistake? Should I leave well alone?

  It had started to drizzle. As I neared Soho and stared gloomily out of the taxi window I had half a mind to tell the driver to turn around and take me home. But now I felt committed, and I also felt I owed this to Peter. I knew he would want me to let this old woman know of his death, however difficult it was going to be.

  (I recently tried to find the Welsh Fusilier but it no longer exists. It was located not far from Tottenham Court Road Tube station, so perhaps it had to be demolished to make way for Crossrail Link. Or perhaps it hadn’t survived very long after my visit in 1981, which was far more likely.)

  As the taxi pulled up outside I could see how dilapidated the pub was. I paid the driver and stepped out into the rain. It was only a few minutes after noon and I expected the pub to be far from busy. I knew the old lady would be easy to identify from Peter’s description of her tatty wig, but I feared she might freak out as I told her about Peter’s murder. It was not something I relished, but I had already decided that it had to be done.

  Before entering, I looked up at the pub sign over the door, a painting of a young Welsh fusilier in an old-fashioned toy soldier uniform. He had little to do with the young poet who was killed in a lice and rat-infested trench at Verdun. Or, for that matter, a young poet who was kicked to death in a Soho street. Again I had doubts about what I was letting myself in for. But the rain was now pelting down and I didn’t have a coat, so I braced myself and entered the pub.

  There were only half a dozen customers in the pub, and they were all men. There was no old woman. I was partly relieved because I wouldn’t have to face an emotional scene, and partly disappointed having come all this way for what would be an anti-climax. I sat on a stool at the bar and ordered a whisky and ginger ale. As I was served by a middle-aged man I guessed he might have been the pub’s landlord and offered him a drink. He accepted a half of Guinness and thanked me.

  I knew it was only a few minutes past noon, but I glanced at my watch from a force of habit. I didn’t want to drink in this dreary hole longer than was necessary, so I decided I would give it an hour and then if she didn’t show up I could forget about this pointless pilgrimage.

  ‘I wonder if you can help me,’ I said to the landlord when he finished pouring his half. ‘I’m looking for someone who comes in here regularly.’

  ‘I know most of the regulars,’ he said, wiping the foam off his top lip. ‘You’re not with the force, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, no. I’m just looking for this old lady who drinks here regularly. She has a badly-fitting wig.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve only been here just over a year now, but that old dear never missed a day. I used to set the clock by her. Used to come in at the same time every single night.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps it wasn’t a wasted journey after all. But then if she didn’t come in during the day I wondered how I could kill time until the evening. I thought I could grab a bite to eat in a decent café, and as it was a Saturday I could catch a theatre matinee and return for the evening session.

  ‘What time does this old lady usually come in at night?’

  ‘She don’t come in no more. Gawd knows how I’m going to set my clock now.’ He followed this last statement with a glance at the pub clock and a chuckle.

  ‘You mean she’s stopped coming here?’

  His laugh froze and he frowned worriedly. ‘You ain’t a relative or anything, are you?’

  ‘No, just a vague acquaintance. Why?’

  ‘Well, if you ask me. I think she’s dead. She come in here regular as clockwork for Gawd knows how many years, then suddenly she don’t come in no more. Stands to reason: she must’ve died.’

  ‘When?’ I almost snapped in my growing excitement.

  His frown deepened as he sensed my urgency. ‘When did she stop coming here, you mean?’

  I nodded furiously.

 
‘Let’s see now. Must be about - mm - about eight weeks ago.’

  I felt excited, jittery. ‘Please, this is important. Could it have been February the twenty-second?’

  He stared at me for a while before he spoke. ‘Just a minute.’ He turned away and consulted a calendar hanging on a hook on the door behind the bar, turning back the pages to February. ‘Let’s see now - delivery from the brewery was on Wednesday afternoon... and she was... ’ He turned back to me. ‘Yes, I can’t really be sure but I think it was around that time she stopped coming here.’

  I sat there stunned, staring into space, trying to order my thoughts into some sort of clear comprehension of the events leading up to Peter’s death. I felt my lips move slowly, slowly shaping into a bizarre thought.

  ‘He came back for her,’ I mumbled. ‘That must be it. He came back for her. And she knew. She waited for him all that time.’

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ the landlord asked.

  I downed my drink. ‘Yes. Sorry, I’m fine.’ I got off the stool and headed for the door, aware that the landlord and several customers watched me intently, puzzled by my strange behaviour. I turned at the door before exiting, knowing that as soon as I was in the street I would be the subject of the next conversation.

  It had stopped raining and the sun was trying to make an appearance as I walked towards Tottenham Court Road Tube. I suddenly felt elated and I didn’t know why. Maybe it was because I had become involved in something of a mystery, but at the same time aware there are no answers. And that can be a good thing sometimes. Sometimes it is better to invent answers.