by Danny King
‘A nurse, eh? He’s a sly one, your old man, eh,’ Tony clucked, much to old Stan’s bemusement.
‘Well, yes, quite. Anyway, back then girls didn’t have careers like they have today, not like your Charley, they had families, so their security depended on them finding themselves a good husband to provide for ’em.’
‘OK, I see what you’re getting at. And your lame old man was a pretty shaky bet,’ I said, filling in the blanks for myself.
‘That he was. And me mum was an attractive girl in her day. She could’ve had her pick of the suitors if she’d wanted to – doctors, solicitors, bankers, anyone, but over all them she chose me dad.’
‘Funny, my old dear spent the best part of thirty years saying exactly the same thing about my old man,’ Tony told us, ‘usually while slinging plates about.’
‘Ton’, d’you mind?’ I told him, sensing Stan’s story was running out of legs as it was, without Tony bowling jokes in front of it all the time. ‘Sorry, Stan, go on.’
‘Well, that’s it really. They got married when me dad got out of the hospital and lived with me grandmother for a couple of years until me dad got back on his feet. In every sense of the word. It was a rough old time for ’em at the start, but they made the best of it because they had each other. And that’s how it is for some folks. It’s all about what’s in here,’ old Stan said, pointing to his heart, ‘not what’s in here.’
He moved his finger down a few inches and for one stupid moment I wondered if he was trying to find his pancreas, before I realised the bulge in his jacket was his wallet.
‘You got a good ’un there, young Terry. Treat her right,’ he winked, lifting his glass.
‘Yeah, and she’s got a few quid in the bank,’ Ton whistled in agreement. ‘Nice.’
Old Stan looked at me, rolled his eyes and finished off the last of his stout.
‘Want another one, Stan?’ I offered, when he set his glass back down.
‘No, son, let me get you one. You shouldn’t be buying anyone drinks today. Not today,’ he insisted.
Old Stan told Tony to do the honours, reached into his jacket and pulled a shiny new twenty out of his pancreas.
‘Blimey, Stan, you printing it or something?’ Tony asked him.
‘Well, no one ever lets me buy one, do they?’ he explained.
‘So, Stan, what happened to your mum and dad? Did he ever get back to the painting?’ I asked.
‘No, he couldn’t. He was never the same again after his accident, so he taught himself to cut hair. Set himself up as a barber and eventually opened up a little shop in Lewisham, him and me mum. He did the fellas, she did the women. Shop ain’t there no more, of course, but they made a good living out of it,’ old Stan said, before a little twinkle entered his eye. ‘And get this, some years later, his old Catford Council governor came in the shop for a haircut. You know, the one who’d done the dirty on him all those years earlier. Well, he recognised me dad in the mirror after a few minutes and apologised for what he’d done. Said he’d had no choice. Some new councillor had come in off the back of a local election and gone through the books with a fine-tooth comb and a hatchet. It hadn’t been his fault. That sort of thing.’
‘So what did your old man do?’ I asked.
‘Nothing; just give him a short back and sides. But me mum cut his ear off when me dad was cleaning his comb out in the sink,’ old Stan chuckled. ‘Should’ve seen the mess it made.’
‘Gordon Bennett! Didn’t she get done, then, your mum, by the Old Bill, like?’ Tony asked, as he plonked our new drinks down on the bar.
‘Nah, everyone knew me dad, and what had happened to him, even the local coppers, so they just put it down to an accident at work – an industrial injury. Well, these things happen all the time, don’t they?’ Old Stan smiled, before sinking into a fresh half of stout.
‘Oi, you ain’t got time for that. Come on, we’re going to be late,’ a voice behind me nagged.
I turned and caught sight of CT standing at the door, frantically tapping his watch.
‘It’s all right, we’ve still got forty-five minutes. And Charley’s bound to be late anyway. It would be an absolute miracle if she weren’t,’ I replied. ‘Besides, we can’t go without Jason, but God knows what he’s doing because he went to the bog twenty minutes ago and no one’s seen him since.’
‘Maybe he fell in,’ Tony smirked.
‘Maybe he’s cleaning it. Somebody oughta,’ old Stan suggested.
Jason emerged a few minutes later, straightening his tie and dabbing his mouth with a paper towel. ‘Sorry about that, chaps, just a few butterflies,’ he explained.
‘What were you doing, catching ’em for the zoo?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s all right for you, you’re not the one having to do the big funny speech, which thanks to him is now going to be in front of a load of TV cameras,’ Jason said, aiming an accusing finger at CT. ‘I’m bloody bricking myself, I am.’
‘Relax, it’ll be fine.’ I smiled. ‘These things have a habit of working out.’
‘Well, they won’t be if we’re late,’ CT insisted. ‘So come on, the car’s waiting.’
‘Oh, all right,’ I relented. ‘Come on, then, let’s get going.
Cheers, Stan. Tony. See you in a couple of weeks’ time.’
‘Yep, see you, son,’ old Stan replied, tipping his glass in my direction. ‘All the best.’
‘Good luck, chaps,’ Tony added, his thumbs to the ceiling.
Luck?
I didn’t need any more luck. I’d already had all the luck in the world and nothing could, or would, ever change that from this day forth. I’d done my utmost to throw it all away, but when luck’s in your corner, you’re impervious to all idiocy. Even your own, believe it or not.
Oh yes, luck was something I had in abundance and no mistake. I had it when I woke up in the morning. I had it when I came home at night. I had it over dinner in the evenings. And I even had it on quiet nights in when I curled up on the sofa to watch Rocket Man Sauce adverts.
Luck?
I didn’t need any more of the stuff. I’d already had all the luck any thicky bricky could ever hope to find.
In Catford, Canonbury or beyond.