by Paul Harris
“I suppose it is, Frank,” I conceded, “Obvious, now you come to mention it.”
He appeared satisfied with that, and totally oblivious to the general mirth.
Frank and Mike had been to football the day before and Mike had returned with a cut above one of his eyes. I asked him how he’d got it in an attempt to change the subject.
“Police truncheon, weren’t it. You know, the baton thing that the coppers on the horses use. One of those big bastards, right across me canister.” He demonstrated, with a wave of his arm, how he’d been struck down in the midst of battle. This performance did nothing to quell the general murmur of dissenting amusement in the ranks, but neither Mike nor Frank were in on the joke. In fact, they were so both completely devoid of any discomfiture that they launched an attempt to recruit me for a forthcoming midweek fixture. It was to be a Wednesday night, and freezing cold, no doubt.
“Up north, innit,” said Mike, “Be a laugh.”
Up north? It would definitely be cold then. I can’t stand football, anyway. I follow it just to fit in; I think everybody else does the same thing. They only go to cause aggravation. All that way just for a scrap, and even that’s getting harder to find these days. These new laws are killing everything; it’s even sent the football hooligans soft. Everybody’s gone soft.
At ten to three, the bell behind the bar rang out and Liam called last orders.
“What!” demanded Frank.
“Joke,” said Liam with a sheepish grin.
“Well funny, that is!” retorted Frank, his displeasure obvious for all to see.
In a bemused panic, Broomhead, meanwhile, had blasted a full pint down his neck and darted to the bar for a refill. Liam shuffled off to serve him.
“But, I do remember a time,” I began harping on, “and not so many moons ago…”
“And what a load of bollocks that was!” cut in Bangla.
“The only chance you get all week for a bloody good piss up,” Broomhead added, “and the bastards send you home to Ian St John and Songs of fucking Praise!”
“It was damned archaic, if you ask me,” piped up some posh berk who was slumped across the bar just behind Mike and had been, foolishly, eyeing Joanne up for the past fifteen minutes. We all turned our attention on him. Broomhead was the first to start laughing and we all followed suit. Frank threw an empty cigarette packet at him. “Well, we didn’t, so shut up!” he grinned, menacingly.
“You out of fags?” I asked him, opening a new packet and offering him one.
He took one and lit it. “Yeah, I got to get some. Fancy getting out of this dump for a bit?” Frank was looking at me for a response but it was Mike who answered first.
“How do you mean?” he faltered, as if he was baffled by the novel idea of a change of location.
“Well, like we used to; just for a change,” Frank suggested, “We could all go back to my gaff. Fancy that? I’ve still got loads of cans left over from Christmas; Jo’s got a few bottles of wine tucked away; there’s a bottle of JD in the cupboard. Bob’s got plenty of puff, right?”
Broomhead nodded. “Of course.”
Bangla nodded his assent, Mike nodded, I nodded, Goggs nodded, everybody nodded, so the deal was sealed.
I was already starting to feel sick, not having eaten all day. “Any grub at yours, Frank?” I politely enquired.
“Food? Shut up, you tart!”
“It’s Sunday,” Broomhead reminded me, “What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m starved.”
“No worries. The Pink Rupee will be open late.”
“More gut rot?”
“You can’t beat the Pink Rupee for a prawn biryani.”
“You still use that place?”
“Is the pope a catholic?” said Broomhead, by way of confirmation.
“Who knows?” Mike remarked, inanely, “What sort of question’s that anyway? Who cares?” We looked at him through narrowed eyes, trying to determine whether he was serious or not, but he was and he hadn’t finished there. “I know he wears a dress though.”
Frank went and told Joanne and the other girls what we’d decided to do. We could hear them whingeing and whining about it over the sound of the jukebox but, eventually, he managed to jockey and bully them into getting their coats and jackets on, along with all the other layers that they’d come out with; their jumpers and cardigans and scarves and mittens and hats of varying designs and practicality. We waited impatiently while they packed and unpacked and then repacked their handbags, spreading all manner of paraphernalia over the tables and chairs.
Once we were back at Frank’s house, I began to wish that I’d gone straight home. We watched MTV and smoked weed. All the girls were clinging to their men, denying them conversation. Broomhead was slumped in a corner with a giant reefer between his lips; and I perched on the arm of a chair, clinging to a can of warm Hofmeister for three hours. I asked Broomhead about the girl I’d heard him with in the morning but he waved it away and seemed quite embarrassed about it.
“What?” I asked, tongue in cheek, “She wake up and realise who it was she was with and then leg it down the road or something?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replied, curtly.
“I’m not,” and that was the end of that conversation.
Frank’s house was nice; I’d been to it on previous occasions but had never had the inclination to check it out, as I had now. Everything in there was new; the carpet and the furniture. The TV, video and stereo were all state of the art gear. He was the only person I knew with Sky TV; every channel on the planet. It made me wonder where he got the money from, because he was only the same age as the rest of us and I couldn’t see him earning a fortune driving a lorry for a living. Joanne’s really tidy too, and it’s one of those long term relationships that will never end. What’s he got that I haven’t? A face like a rotten cauliflower, a charisma bypass, and a permanent reservation at Wormwood Scrubs. I couldn’t work it out.
Going to the toilet at Frank’s on days like these was like joining a mule train up the steep staircase. You had to start queueing ten minutes before you got the urge because Samantha and Fluff would be hogging the bathroom, grooming themselves and painting their nails. The door was bolted from the inside when Broomhead was sick on Frank’s beige carpet right at the top of the stairs. Frank merely sighed, stoically, and seemed completely unsurprised and unfazed. He knew exactly what to expect from Broomhead.
At about seven o’clock, after half an hour of Meatloaf and much finger tapping and lip puckering as Frank performed his “Bat out of Hell” dance, I announced my intention to return to the pub. There was a general murmuring of discontent at my proposal, particularly from the assembled females. Although the party was breaking up, due largely to the fact that Broomhead had smoked the last of his stash and Frank couldn’t find his much championed bottle of Jack Daniels, the consensus was that another trip to the Red Cow was one step too far for a Sunday evening. I couldn’t say that I blamed them, but I yearned to be anonymous amongst a crowd of drunks, wallowing in idle chatter, self-pity, and remorse. They had other things to do, like going home and watching Esther Rantzen, like eating proper food, and like going to bed so they’d be fresh for work in the morning. I wasn’t ready for that yet; the emptiness and the solitude.
I got to my feet and prepared to make my farewells. They didn’t believe that I would just leave them and go my own way, but Broomhead knew me better than that.
“Go on then,” he said, “I’ll have one with you.”
Broomhead set the pace across the gloomy and frosty field. We marched on at speed, longing for warmth and hospitality, rubbing our hands together to keep the blood circulating. I could smell the vomit on his breath as it curled from the back of his throat into the still night. “So, she’s gone again?” he said, right out of the blue.
We were crossing the supermarket carpark. I kept my head bowed and said nothing.
“Moke’s gone, eh?”
&
nbsp; “Looks like it.”
“What’s up with you? There’s no need to cry about it.”
“I ain’t crying!” I growled at him, angered by the very suggestion that my masculinity had been breached, “It’s the wind making my eyes water.”
Broomhead poked his finger towards the night sky to test the wind speed. Then licked it, and tried again. He shook his head. I scowled at him and tried to front it. I told him to shut up, that he didn’t know what he was talking about, that none of it mattered to me, that she never meant a thing. I attempted to laugh it off, but I could feel that solitary tear tickling my cheek with its warmth, and I burst. “I just don’t know how she can walk out so easily; like none of it matters; like nothing ever mattered!”
“None of it does matter, mate.” He put a consoling arm around me, and then tore it away when he saw me glaring at him beneath the streetlight. “Nothing matters,” he muttered with a quiet but resolute emphasis, “Nothing at all.”
When we got to the pub, it was empty. Broomhead took it upon himself to buy me beer all night long; he wouldn’t let me near the bar. We sat together in a corner and I had to listen to him expound his theories about women, infidelity, and deception. He was a real woman-hater; a condition founded on his complete ineptitude in dealing with them, which, in turn, was founded on his propensity to be completely wasted whenever he did attempt to deal with them. He saw himself as being a great comfort to me but, in reality, he effectively rendered me suicidal for the evening.
“Don’t worry,” he nodded, reassuringly, as last orders approached, “Moke’ll fall on her feet.”
Monday’s hangover was near fatal; quite literally.
I was hanging from the scaffolding, attempting to land a pallet of bricks on it which were swinging haphazardly through the air. As the crane began to jib in, the wind caught the load and I went with it. All I knew was that the open edge of the scaffold was racing towards me, preparing to suck me to the ground fifteen metres below. The events of the weekend flashed through my mind and I was helpless to save myself; I had neither the energy nor the will to alter the hand that fate was about to deal me.
As I staggered towards the gap that I’d opened up in the guardrail, the crane driver pulled it out, and the bricks went sailing up into the low grey sky. The banksman slung his radio down on the scaffold boards and caught me by my jacket sleeve; he held onto me until I’d regained my balance and was steady on my feet. The timber pallet had stroked my face as it had flown past, skywards bound, splintering against my cheek bone. I’d cursed the pain; and now blood was beginning to seep from the network of deep abrasions on my face, and drip onto my shoulder.
“Why don’t you stay out of the way?” the banksman demanded, irately. Under normal circumstances, I’d have remonstrated with him but I was still in a state of shock. In addition to this, he was a massive Irishman of about eighteen stones, all muscle and ginger bristles, who’d have probably sparked me out with one punch. “Fekin eejit!” he glared at me.
“Your mate wants to learn how to drive a fucking crane, Paddy!” and with that, I shot off down the ladder to go and get my face cleaned up. The woman who took me to the first aid room, dabbed at my face for about ten minutes with a ball of cotton wool drenched in TCP; after which, she pronounced me as good as new and fit for purpose. I didn’t feel it though, and decided to call it a day. I went home, still drunk from the day before.
I nipped into the pub on my way back to the flat for a hair of the dog and some more self-loathing. The Monday club was well represented. A few of the lads were gathered at the bar, nursing hangovers and delicately clutching their heads between their hands. They were planning a trip to the Isle of Wight for a rally of some kind; music, scooters, it wasn’t clear, but it would definitely mean more aggro.
“Rod’ll come!” said one of them as I stepped through the door into the bitter atmosphere of stale beer, stale sweat and stale tobacco smoke.
“Will he?” I replied, doubtfully.
“Yeah, what about it?”
“When is it?”
“Weekend after next. Spring innit? Be warmer.”
“Don’t know,” I contemplated, “Did you ask Broomhead?”
“Broomhead won’t. He’s doing something; wouldn’t say what.”
“What about Frank Garvey?”
“Nah,” with a shaking of heads, “Missus won’t let him.”
“Think I’ll leave it then, if it’s all the same to you.”
“What’s the matter with your crowd just lately? You get yourselves a couple of scrubbers and you don’t want to know anymore!”
“Lost your bottle, eh, Rod?” asked another of them.
“You think so?” I scoffed right back at him.
A couple of them laughed, another couple turned away, and I went and sat down, alone.
Shortly after five o’clock, Frank came in on his way home from work and sat down next to me. By now, I was slouched at a table with an untouched pint and a half-full ashtray in front of me, staring at a patch of threadbare carpet, my mind miles away, on a beach in Southend.
“What happened to your face?” he asked.
I’d forgotten all about it. I rubbed my fingers over the wound to check that it still stung, and it did. I grimaced. “Accident at work. Poxy crane driver!”
“Yeah?” Still pissed?”
“Who? Me or him?”
He bit his lip and took a sip from his glass.
“Suppose so,” I said, “So what?”
“What’s up, Rod? That lot been pissing you off too?” He gestured with his eyes towards the bar where the others were still planning their South Coast adventure.
“Nah.”
“Did they ask you to go to the Isle of Wight with them?”
“Yeah, but I’m not gonna; they’ll be freezing their bollocks off.”
“So, what’s the problem then? Why are you like this? You’re not the same any more. You never used to be like this.”
I eyed him, quizzically, but didn’t know how to respond; I didn’t have the words. We sat quietly for a couple of minutes, drinking and smoking. I heard myself groan, involuntarily. Frank gave me a searching look, anticipating my explanation. “I just can’t stand this shit, I suppose,” I uttered all at once.
“What shit? Anything in particular?”
“No, nothing in particular. Everything! It’s all shit and I’m sick of it all!” I felt my Adam’s apple swelling in my throat, gagging me, and I thought I was going to cry. I considered the idea of crawling back to Marilyn and bouncing my little boy on my knee. I would read him a bedtime story about dragons and heroes and moon’s that could speak, and then everything would be okay. “I’m trapped in someone else’s life,” I mumbled, despondently.
Frank put a hand on my knee. “Go home, Rod, and get some sleep. Stay off the booze for a couple of days, it’ll do you good. I’ll call you later in the week. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Wednesday morning was the coldest so far that year. It was official; they said so on the radio breakfast show, in between a couple of highly amusing and sublimely witty features about ladies underwear and some such other nonsense. I couldn’t find my gloves; and, in fact, I wasn’t sure that I possessed a pair. My fingers were so cold that I couldn’t hold a cigarette to my lips. I kept my hands in my pockets as I picked my way, tentatively, through the ice that clung in sheets to the pavements, and prayed that I wouldn’t slip over.
Gloria Ryder was at the bus stop when I got there, as if she’d been waiting there all night just to pounce on me. She was always pouncing; she was a born pouncer; and once she got her claws into you, she wouldn’t let you escape until she’d drained the will to live from every ounce of your being. She insisted on walking arm-in-arm with everybody and spoke at the top of her voice so that everybody else could hear her inane rumour-mongering.
Her painted face glistened in the bright, crisp, morning sunshine. Her mascara was the texture of tarmac and her lipstick appe
ared as if it had been procured from the Post Office paint stores. It was minus four and the hem of her skirt barely concealed her underwear. I diverted my attention away from the varicose veins that ran down the back of her knees.
“Guess who I seen yesterday, Rod!” The massed black make-up around her little piggy eyes spread across her face as she grinned complacently.
I shrugged, paid her no attention, and gazed down the street as if I were looking for the bus.
“Moke!” she screamed, excitedly.
“So?” I remarked, indifferently, “So what?”
“You used to go out with her, didn’t you?”
Used to? It’s only been three days, I thought to myself. “Used to,” I cheerfully replied, “yeah, that’s right, I used to.”
“And, guess who she was with!”
My heart leapt. I didn’t want to know; I really didn’t want to know. “Who?”
The bus came hurtling around the corner. “Tell you in a bit,” she whispered, and then licked her lips in anticipation. “Sit by me, yeah?” She clambered aboard the bus, wiggling her huge rump in my face as if she thought it was sexy. She began to climb the stairs to the upper deck and I was about to follow her when, looking up, I inadvertently noticed that she wasn’t actually wearing any underwear. My stomach turned. I remained on the lower deck and sat alone.
Chapter Eleven
Chalk Farm Road
We all met at Camden Lock the following Friday night, at the Fusilier & Firkin. It was a huge theme-type pub where the walls are laden with bric-a-brac, something akin to a large antique shop or a kleptomaniac’s garage. I got there early and the place was only half full. You could still force your way through to the bar and scatterings of sawdust were still visible on the bare floorboards. By half past nine, it would be heaving with sweaty bodies, and I would be lost.