In Pieces

by Nick Hopton

  ‘That’s not what The Sun says. And we didn’t exactly score a bundle did we?’

  ‘Mmmm…’ Si hoped Jimmy would cheer up. After all, fortune had hardly neglected him recently; was his a footballing rags to riches story or what? But how quickly people take changed circumstances for granted.

  ‘I think the worst thing is that Newcastle won.’

  ‘Yeah, I see.’ Newcastle, chasing United for the title, had closed the gap with a 1-0 victory over Aston Villa that afternoon. With three matches left it could now go either way, although United were still the bookies’ favourites. Certainly, the title seemed destined to be decided on the last day of the season.

  ‘Bugger.’ Jimmy slammed the table.

  ‘Cool it, man,’ soothed Si.

  ‘Cool it? You sound like some American twat.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I’ve got this Californian mate. He says it a lot. I guess it might have rubbed off.’

  Jimmy looked at Si suspiciously.

  Si went on regardless. ‘Actually, I thought we might get him out for a pint next time you’re down. He’s a good bloke. You’ll like him.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is he an intellectual bugger like you? I don’t think I could handle another.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. He’s a surfer.’ Si refused to let Jimmy’s obnoxiousness get to him. He’d seen his friend in these moods before. They were generally a pose designed to tell the world that he didn’t give a damn.

  Jimmy realised Si wasn’t going to rise and grinned sheepishly. ‘Oh my God. A surfer. In London? Right… Well, why don’t you bring him to the next match then, eh? And tell him to bring his board.’ They both cracked up.

  ‘Yeah, right. Great.’

  ‘So what’s his name then? The surfer.’ And Jimmy laughed again at the thought of a surfer in London.

  ‘Ricky.’

  ‘Ricky?’ mimicked Jimmy. ‘Grief. This is worse than I thought.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t want to meet him…’

  ‘No, I was only joking. I’m sure he’s great. Real cool, eh?’ He looked straight into Si’s eyes. After an awkward silence, they shared a smile.

  ‘So are you heading back up north tonight?’

  ‘No, I’m here until Tuesday morning. No training tomorrow.’

  ‘Right. Another drink tomorrow night, then?’

  ‘Yeah, it would be rude not to. After all, one or two won’t hurt, will they?’

  ~

  ‘I’m just off down the shops. Do you want anything?’

  Greta thought for a moment. ‘Pick me up some milk, will you? There’s a sweet lad.’

  ‘Sure, no problem. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘You’ll be back for lunch, will you?’

  ‘Oh aye. I will. Best bit of the day.’ They shared a smile. ‘Bye.’

  Greta listened to the door click to, and then continued loading the kids’ clothes into the washing machine. If only her mother had told her how much washing children generated, she’d surely have thought twice before breeding. But, she thought with uncharacteristic bitterness, her mother hadn’t even turned up to her wedding. So expecting her to provide helpful maternal advice was asking a lot.

  Greta sighed and stuffed the last bundle of soiled garments into the voracious machine’s mouth. After slamming the door shut and turning it on, she straightened up and stretched backwards. The pain in her lower back wasn’t getting any better. Old age, she lamented. She flicked on the kettle. Time for a coffee. These days she seemed to measure out her days in cups of instant coffee. Hardly an idyll, but, she chided herself, there were many worse off, and she really shouldn’t be complaining.

  The sky was overcast and the chill made the Sleeper snuggle deeper in his jacket. At the top of All Saints Road he looked about for Lenny. The bench was empty; a few straggling pedestrians made their way down the hill. A couple of drug dealers loitered in doorways—trade started early these days.

  The Sleeper disapproved of drugs. He’d tried dope back home as a kid, but his mother had drilled into him the dangers of hard drugs—‘See what happened to your cousin Brendan,’ she used to say sadly, and although he’d never known what had really happened to Brendan, whom he’d hardly known, the impression stuck. He thought Michael was probably into charlie. Once coming in from the pub, he’d heard Greta screaming something about coke being all to blame for their problems. But it wasn’t any of his business, so he didn’t pry.

  Abandoning the idea of a quick chat with Lenny, he walked briskly to the newsagent. As usual, Jo stood behind the counter scowling at his customers. When he saw the Sleeper he nodded a welcome. ‘Now then, young ’un. How goes this morning?’

  ‘Great, Jo. Just fine and dandy.’

  Jo looked surprised. ‘That’s odd, ’cause what with your team getting thrashed at weekend, I thought thee’d be a bit down in mouth.’ Thinly concealed pleasure broke through as he smiled mockingly.

  ‘Aye, I might have known you’d harp on about that. Well, even champions can’t win all the time. And we had a weakened team you know. Lots of reserves and new players.’

  ‘Eeeh, lad, you can’t have it both ways, you know. Only last week you were telling me how fantastic that new striker… What’s his name?’

  ‘Jimmy Sweeny,’ prompted the Sleeper patiently.

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. Well, he was playing, wasn’t he? So, don’t be making excuses for ’em.’

  The Sleeper relished his banter with Jo. It was rare that he was on the receiving end as Manchester United had been doing so well recently. Of course, Jo, as a Yorkshireman, hated United. ‘So, how did Leeds do?’ The Sleeper knew the result of course: they’d lost one nil at home. But he wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to retaliate.

  Jo’s face clouded over. ‘Bloody awful. Can’t even win at Elland Road these days. Hopeless. I reckon they should sack the manager. Then buy a new team. It ain’t like the old days… I tell you, when I used to go and watch them in the days of Billy Bremner, now, that was a champion team. They’d have walked all over your poncy Man U, no trouble.’

  ‘Dream on, Jo. Hey, I knew I came in here for something.’

  ‘Oh aye, can’t be wasting the day, I suppose. Courier and Irish Times, as usual is it?’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Jo.’ The Sleeper counted out his change and gathered the newspapers—one for the Andrews and the other for himself. ‘See you, Jo.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, lad. Oh, and send my regards to that pretty landlady of yours.’ Jo winked.

  The Sleeper blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘Yeah, course I will.’ He waved a hand and left the shop as quickly as possible. Behind him he could hear Jo laughing at his embarrassment, a raucous, timbrous laugh brewed deep within that vast beer-invested belly.

  He headed back towards home intending to pick up Greta’s milk at the Seven Eleven.

  Crossing the road by the church, he spotted Lenny. The tramp was lying on the low wall next to the graveyard, apparently asleep. The Sleeper wandered over. ‘You awake, then, Lenny?’

  The whimper of a wounded animal emanated from the prostrate figure. ‘I’m dying.’

  The Sleeper bent over his friend. ‘What’s wrong?’ Suddenly a thought struck him. ‘You been hit by a car, is that it?’ Lenny was always vulnerable to being run over, swaying drunkenly on the kerb. ‘Don’t you worry. I’ll get an ambulance.’

  A gnarled hand on his sleeve prevented him leaving in search of a phone. ‘No, don’t do that. I’ve not been hit by a car.’

  ‘So what’s wrong with you, then?’ The Sleeper’s concern was turning to irritation.

  ‘I knew it was a mistake. I’ve always kept to the lager before. Tried and trusted. I was a fool to drink it.’

  ‘Drink what? What did you drink? Meths, is that it? Ah, you stupid eejit.’

  ‘No, I didn’t drink meths. Do you take me for an idiot? I’ve no desire to commit suicide. And you mind who you’re talking to, young man.’r />
  ‘Yeah, sorry, Lenny. I’m just a bit concerned for you, that’s all.’

  Lenny belched and slowly sat up. He beckoned the Sleeper to sit beside him on the wall and patted his knee. ‘Yes, you’re a good friend to me. I’m feeling better already.’

  ‘So what did you drink, then, that poisoned you so bad?’

  ‘Brandy. I found a half bottle in the bin down there, and seeing I’d run out of cans, I couldn’t really stop myself. Fool that I was.’

  The Sleeper laughed. ‘Are you telling me you can’t handle a drink stronger than lager?’

  Lenny looked shamefaced. ‘I’ve never had that problem before. But I must be getting old. And for so long now I’ve just stuck to lager. The occasional bit of beer, but mostly lager. I guess the grape is stronger than me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No matter. Onwards and upwards. That’s what they used to say at school. I’ve never asked you. Are you a public school man? I imagine you are, being such a nice young man.’

  The Sleeper looked at the grimy ravaged face sunk into the desiccated body about which hung the rancid smell of human excrement. ‘You were one of those posh public school boys?’ He was incredulous.

  Lenny straightened himself and stuck out his chin. ‘What makes you think that I might not have been?’ He looked slightly offended that anyone should question his education. ‘My present state should not conceal from you that I am a gentleman by birth and breeding.’

  ‘Get away. You’re a laugh, you are.’ The Sleeper fell about.

  Lenny watched him with a pained look. ‘I’m glad that I amuse you. But if you don’t mind, I am feeling unwell and would prefer to be left alone.’

  ‘Oh Lenny, man, don’t take it to heart. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to be rude. Can I stay a bit longer?’

  ‘Well, if you must. But I expect a bit more respect in future. After all, I’m at least twice your age.’

  ‘Thanks.’ They sat in silence for a while. A small dog strolled past. It seemed to know where it was going. The sun came out briefly, and then it clouded over again. It even looked as if it might rain.

  Lenny broke the spell. ‘I intend to be buried here,’ he pronounced.

  ‘What, here in this churchyard?’

  ‘Yes. So that my friends can visit me easily.’

  ‘Well, not too soon, I hope.’

  ‘One never knows. Maybe even tomorrow? The way I was feeling an hour ago…’

  The Sleeper smiled. ‘Just stay off the brandy; then you’ll live to a grand old age.’

  ‘The only problem is that the priest is putting obstacles in the way.’

  ‘Obstacles?’

  ‘He insists that I become a Catholic. Totally unreasonable, I think.’

  ‘So this is a Catholic church?’

  ‘Yes, and I’m an Anglican. I mean, I explained to Father Theodore—don’t you think that’s a silly name? I do. Anyway, I told him we believed in the same God and that as a good Christian I had every right to be buried in my local parish church.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said that I should go to the Church of England place over the way.’

  ‘So why don’t you?’

  ‘Well, it’s not so pretty. And I never sit outside that horrid new church to socialise with my friends. Only here.’

  ‘Aye, I see the problem.’ The Sleeper thought for a moment. His face lit up. ‘I’ve got the answer.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Aye, it’s simple. You convert.’

  Lenny’s disappointment was visible. ‘You think I haven’t considered that? Of course I have. But I don’t think I can bring myself to do it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘When I suggested it to Father thingamajig, he said it was not something to be done lightly. There were all sorts of considerations.’

  ‘Like what? I thought the church was always trying to recruit new people.’

  ‘Questions of faith. Sacraments.’ Lenny delivered these words like a judgement.

  ‘Well, I’m a Catholic and I’ve never had to worry about them.’

  ‘Ah, that’s because you’re one of the lucky ones. Born into certainty. The life of the righteous. Hereditary membership.’

  The Sleeper looked mystified.

  ‘The problem arises when you try to join your Church. The entrance exam is really rather rigorous. Now I’m perfectly happy to have regular little chats with the priest and to discuss theology. In fact, there’s nothing I like more than a little bit of theology…’ Lenny tailed off, lost in thought.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Oh yes, excuse me. Quite lost myself for a moment. As I was saying, a bit of Socratic dialogue never hurt anyone and I’d be delighted to debate the finer points of the Gospels. But this Father Theodore,’ he pronounced the syllables with distaste, ‘he says that I must be prepared to listen and then accept the teaching he would offer. Dictatorship, that’s what it sounds like to me. No doubt he’d want me to worship graven idols, eat human flesh and believe in angels. Well, I just won’t do that. I’ve got principles, after all.’

  The Sleeper looked puzzled. ‘But Catholics don’t do that, do they?’ He thought of his devout mother and just couldn’t recall her doing other than going to church most days, crying a lot, particularly after his dad left, and wearing black more as she got older.

  ‘Oh, I see. You’re not really a practising Catholic, are you?’

  For no explicable reason, the Sleeper felt guilty. He hadn’t thought of his religion for months until now. It had never been something other than a backdrop in his life, like being a boy, or being Irish. No, in fact, being Irish was something stronger, more real. ‘What I mean is, Catholics don’t eat flesh.’ He racked his brains. ‘It’s the communion, that’s all. Don’t you do that in your church?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s different. Anglicans don’t believe in transubstantiation. At least I don’t.’

  ‘What’s trans-sub-stan…?’ He gave up. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘It means the sacrament when the bread and wine turn into the body and blood of Christ. Anglicans believe it figuratively and your lot take it literally.’

  ‘No, they don’t. You’re being daft. When I was a lad I used to take communion all the time. But it never turned into flesh and blood in my mouth. I promise you, Lenny. You’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ Lenny was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps. But the priest seemed pretty clear… And what about worshipping Mary as the Mother of God? Isn’t that what you do? That’s proscribed in the Ten Commandments.’

  ‘I’m not really the man to talk to, Lenny, but I remember we used to pray to Mary for various things. I can’t quite remember what. But I don’t think we worshipped her.’

  ‘And angels? What a load of hocus pocus.’ Lenny rallied accusingly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. It’d be nice, though, wouldn’t it? I guess it’s just stories, really.’

  Lenny clearly wasn’t fully satisfied. ‘Well, I’ll have to think about it. I suppose I should have another chat with that priest to clear a few of these points up.’

  ‘Aye, you do that. Sounds a good idea to me.’

  They sat quietly for a few more moments and watched the first prostitutes come out for work. A panda car sped by, siren blaring. Just another day in Notting Hill Gate.

  ‘Well, I’ll be off then, Lenny. Got to get back for lunch.’

  ‘Right. Goodbye. And thanks. We had an interesting chat, didn’t we?’

  ‘We certainly did, Lenny. It’s always a pleasure.’ The Sleeper walked quickly home, leaving the tramp on the church wall staring into space.

  ‘I’m home,’ he called.

  ‘Good timing. We’ll eat in five minutes.’

  The Sleeper dropped the papers onto the table, made a face at Greta’s youngest who watched him from the high chair, and took off his jacket.

  ‘Did you get the milk?’

  ‘Ah, sweet Mary. I kn
ew there was something.’

  Greta looked disappointed.

  ‘Now look. I’m sorry. See, I’ll get it after lunch. Okay? And I promise you; I’ll make it up to you somehow. Okay?’

  Greta cheered up. ‘You will? How’ll that be, then?’

  ‘Oh, never you mind. I’ll find a way…’ And they both laughed with nervous anticipation.

  ~

  ‘When we were small… my ma used to feed us nothing but grits some days…’

  ‘What are grits?’ slurred Si.

  They were back at his gaff, slouched on the floor drinking whisky. Si was already beginning to look towards his bed. As predicted, the second gig had been an even bigger success than the first and celebrations had led to many drinks. Too many. He had a mounting, bilious feeling rising within him. Soon he’d stop drinking. After this whisky. But it would be a waste not to finish off the glass.

  Ricky, still flying on adrenaline, seemed more awake than ever.

  ‘Grits are like cereals, you know. You eat them for breakfast.’

  ‘Right.’ Si felt his eyelids begin to fall. Not far away he could hear a train cut though the embankment. The post train or the milk train, he supposed. Perhaps they were one and the same? Carrying milk and post together to save money. It certainly made sense. He pondered this as he listened with half an ear to Ricky.

  ‘Sometimes I was so hungry I couldn’t stop my stomach rumbling in class. The teacher used to look at me kind of pitiful like, but she couldn’t do anything.’

  ‘Where was your dad?’

  ‘My pa went off when I was about ten. Son of a bitch…’ There seemed little to add. ‘But my ma did her best for us kids. There were four of us. I was second youngest. That’s when I decided to be a rock star…’

  ‘Mmm…’ nodded Si as he fell asleep.

  ~

  Si woke first.

  The sunlight streamed in through the big window and surrounded Ricky with a halo. His burnished hair shot out in all directions. He sat in the same position he’d been in the night before and must have fallen asleep mid-story.

  Si vaguely remembered something about a childhood of grinding poverty followed by Ricky making a serious amount of money quickly, just before coming to London. How he’d done this, he hadn’t explained… Or at least Si couldn’t remember.