An Old Pub Near the Angel (3 page)

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah down Kentish Town way.’

‘Where d’you live now?’

‘Got a house out Wood Green.’

‘Quite nice out there.’

Joe wrinkled his face. ‘Yeah got a garden and that.’

‘Neighbours all right?’

He stared at me for about a minute curiously then said, ‘I know you Jock,’ nodding his head with certainty. I sipped the light ale and lit a cigarette before replying.

‘I don’t know you Joe.’

‘What do you do again?’

‘Nothing man. I don’t do anything.’

Joe sighed and began tapping his fingers on the glass.

‘You’re a strange bastard.’

‘Not me Joe.’ I glanced at the clock above the gantry. Nearly an hour and a half till closing.

‘Yeah Jock you.’ Joe put his glass down firmly on the counter and stepped back swaying a little.

‘I’m off for a piss.’

‘I’ll get another round up.’ I smiled but Joe did not return it.

A man sitting alone near the door gazed up questioningly but I slowly shook my head. He looked away. Ten minutes passed before Joe returned. He had obviously gone through the cold water routine and appeared steadier on his feet now.

‘Ah Jock,’ he said heavily, ‘some life eh?’

‘I doubt if I’ll get this whisky down.’

‘Never try the gin then?’

‘Bloody perfume man.’

‘Oh it’s good. Pleasant to the taste.’

‘What does your girl do?’

‘Hairdressing. At college. Yeah.’ Joe smiled to himself. ‘Ah she’s quite a girl Jock. Yeah.’

We remained silent for two minutes. I was finding some difficulty in concentrating. Joe appeared to be quite fresh which rather surprised me. He looked at his watch.

‘Time I hit the road,’ he lit another cigarette.

‘Already?’

‘Christ you were talking about leaving two hours ago.’

‘Aye, but I was enjoying the chat.’

‘Pooo.’

‘I was Joe.’

‘Anyway.’ He glanced quickly around the room. ‘I’ll see you again son.’

I gave him a sort of salute and smiled. ‘Cheerio man.’ Joe turned and marched across the floor and out. The man at the door rose slowly, nodded over to me and followed him out.

Poor old Joe.

He was in his third month of poverty-stricken freedom and fast losing most of his friends including the one commonly known as his best. It couldn’t last much longer. He checked his pockets, again discovering that 1½d. which had haunted him since Monday night. He also had the usual fruitless search for forgotten fags and butt ends. He couldn’t understand how he’d managed to survive the past three days. One of these days he’d have to get a job. This no money was becoming a problem. How was one supposed to eat? He spoke aloud, ‘God, how is one supposed to eat? I mean fair do’s and all that piss.’ Lapsing into a depressed silence he lay staring at the ceiling until remembering about the hotel up west. The one that served meals to all their employees and all the people who worked in other hotels in the chain. No questions or raised eyebrows he’d heard. Why not take the chance. Of course it would mean having to leave this lovely, warm and tender, dirty, scratchy kip. Still it was worth it. He got out of bed. It was so cold. Why do landlords never supply electric fires? Only those shitey gas fires needing shitey tanners. This was really terrible. Why not huge roaring logs burning and hot toddies. Danish blue cheese and french bread. Twenty Players and a bird. Oh man. They definitely do not care about their lodgers in this place. You could starve or freeze to death. Have to do a moonlight, that would show the bastard, course old John would probably hang out the flags. Christ imagine having a right few quid though. Maybe get a real good place
with fitted carpets, refrigerators and TV sets. Easy to get a chick up then with a bit of comfort around.

He lifted a towel and walked over to the sink.

No on reflection why wash? The water would be ice cold. Could possibly die of heart failure when it splashed the face. Why take the chance? Nobody would know the difference anyway.

He walked back and quickly dressed.

Have to get down to the laundrette shortly, the socks are beginning to crack. It must be great to be able to put on a fresh pair of pants and maybe a vest. Still, at least I can dress quite respectably on the outside. Thank God I can’t find a pawn shop that accepts clothes. Hope I don’t get knocked back at this hotel canteen, Christ that would just about finish me. Oh just imagine though, chicken fricassaise or something. No. No. Curried chicken with all the etceteras oh man man cups of tea, one during and two after. Perhaps someone will offer a polite fag afterwards who knows.

He had a look in the mirror screwing up his face and smoothing his untidy hair into order with both hands then he turned and left the room. As he locked the door one of the other tenants happened to be climbing the stairs carrying a brush and shovel.

‘Well Charles,’ he said, ‘got a start yet?’

‘Why, no Mr Reilly. Have not got a start yet.’

‘Why don’t you try building sites. Always plenty of work going there eh?’ he smiled.

‘Yeah that’s a good idea, thanks. Might just do that.’

‘Yes it would get you back on your feet again eh?’

‘That’s right, it would put me back on my feet again. Ha ha.’

‘Well, anyway,’ he smiled uneasily, ‘got some cleaning to do eh? Ha ha. No rest for the wicked eh?’

‘That’s right ha ha.’ Yeah hurry away you miserable, ‘Oh Mr
Reilly,’ he turned, ‘Mr Reilly could you spare a fag, haven’t had a chance to . . . thanks, ta . . . bye.’

Charles walked downstairs, paused, scanning the piles of mail and left without checking to see if he had any.

At least it had stopped raining. Also Charles had cheered up. He enjoyed walking, normally he had no choice, money was too scarce to waste on bus or tube fares. God please let me find two and six lying on the pavement. Hey look at the bent-looking idiot – wonder if that’s the only nose he has. His gait man look at his gait. Take one look at me you bastard and you will need a new nose. Oh quite a nice looking chick over there. Hullo there she’s looking across. Wink at her, no response. Yeah thanks for returning it, nice of you to acknowledge it with a quirk of the lips or friendly smile. Actually you are a hackit-looking bag, so there. Ha Ha Ha. Jasus another, look at the walk on her, definitely the girl from Ipanema.

‘Good morning Astrud,’ he called. The girl looked startled and hurried away. Ah well at least you noticed me. The crack was a bit above your level anyhow. Sorry darling but there it is. Not your fault. Man. Oh. Thought that was a tanner there – might have saved the old legs a couple of miles’ slog. Or perhaps a couple of scones from that dairy. Ah never mind. Still though imagine having lived on Britain’s green and pleasant land for twenty-three years and not a tosser to show for it, apart from the faithful 1½d. Look at John Stevens too, a bloody millionaire at twenty-six. Christ look at The Beatles. No man, I’ll definitely have to change my ways. I mean it this time. Get a job and a good flat. Really go to town – do it all up – get a cocktail cabinet, that’s a must – have a few bottles of Dimple and Drambuie – all the best gear. Brandy of course – vodka too and Bacardi for the women. One of those boxes containing at least a hundred fags. The fridge of course, cheese and steak and ice cubes, crates of Guinness and lager. Christ imagine it,
ninety-six mohair suits and thirty-four Crombie coats and . . .

He stepped off the kerb, right into a deep puddle.

‘For FUCK’s sake,’ he shouted, and stepped back again noticing the startled expressions of the shocked passers-by.

God love us, step into a bloody puddle, dirty filthy water and dogs’ pish gets over the tops of your shoes soaking your socks and feet and you can’t even shout fuck. Ach I’m really sick of it all. Must get a job, this would never have happened if I could of afforded a bus. What a life. Oh man man this is really bad. I’ll be squelching and sliding in my shoes all day now. Wonder how far it is to Blackfriars?

‘Excuse me passer-by, how far is . . .’ The girl walked on hurriedly. Jesus you’d think I was going to rape her or something. What a look, an honest simple question. Wish I knew what was with some people. Wonder how long it takes to cross this road. Man, look at this face. God love us. Imagine having one like that. Course he’ll have money though – that’s the difference. I’d take his face in a minute, if his money went with it. Ah the poor old bastard, probably got a heavy mortgage – overdrawn at the bank – wife pregnant for the seventeenth time and every one a mongol.

‘I’m sorry mister,’ he shouted aloud, the man, hearing the call, turned back.

‘What?’ asked the man.

‘Harry. I’m Harry, oh sorry I thought you were Mr Jackson.’

‘What?’ asked the man, evidently wondering what it was all about.

‘OK? Sorry about that.’ Charles began edging away, the man was still standing.

Ah well that’ll teach me. Should of asked him for a light there. But – this nice-looking chick will do fine.

‘Excuse . . .’ too late, the girl was halfway down the road.

Charming. You’d think my fly was open with the business
hanging out, I mean man, just running away like that it’s enough to make me go bent or something. Oh quick.

‘Hey mister, have you a light please?’

‘Yes son.’

‘Thanks a lot. Thanks. Ta. Thanks an awful.’

‘That’s OK son.’

So grateful I nearly kissed him there.

Charles inhaled deeply and immediately burst into a fit of uncontrollable coughing, causing looks of concern from one or two onlookers. He spat. The catarrh was so green and thick it bounced off the ground.

‘My goodness!’ cried the gathering crowd in unison.

Jesus Christ this is disgusting, I’ll have to see a doctor. Imagine dying of cancer at twenty-three it would make you sick. Old Grandpa died of cancer. Course he had a good long life, no complaints there. But twenty-three? Malnutrition probably has something to do with it. Hey look at her man, what a coupon, legs like a billiard table. I bet even she’d knock me back.

Have to pack this existence in. Start looking for a job tomorrow after I get paid, may even do a moonlight tomorrow night. Hope I don’t see John though, course the old bastard knows I see the NAB man on Thursdays. Ah shite, who cares. Charles noticed an amusement arcade not far from Blackfriars Bridge, he flipped a coin and entered. Ah the dog machine, wonder what to back. Hey how come I’m the only punter in here, must be crooked or something. Never mind I’ll try the red dog – only evens of course but still, if I can do a three timer I’ll have a tanner then try the slots and the sky’s the limit. Right. They’re off Park Royal running 3.36, it’s six from two, three, one and four. On the one dog. Round the bottom bend it’s three going on from two, four one – round the final bend it’s three going two lengths clear of two. On the one dog. Go on my son. Ah
bastard. Always the same when you’re skint. A ½d. left. What a big-time dog player.

Charles walked over the bridge, stopping about halfway across to gaze upriver.

Wonder what it’d be like falling in, probably wake up in a lovely clean and warm hospital bed with a luscious nurse leaning anxiously over me. Big tits nudging my ears, saying things like ‘Would you like a mug of steaming, piping hot coffee, liberally laced with black rum. Also a Player’s?’

‘Well thank you, wouldn’t say no.’

Oh why bother. Come on God, I’m only asking for half a crown. Please make that man in front deaf and blind then let him drop two and six. I promise to take his name and address and send it on to him later.

The rain started falling heavily.

‘Who cares,’ he shouted waving his fist upwards. ‘Who cares anyway eh? My feet are soaking already ha ha ha.’

The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places – pubs. Drank in here for near enough thirty years.’ He paused shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Jim. Night Jim. Been in the navy. Yes he’d been in the navy all right. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight his dead cigarette. ‘Only survivor too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered around the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.

‘Slate,’ said the old guy, ‘pay him pension day.’ He smiled. ‘Not supposed to drink this, says it’s bad for me gut – the doctor.’

‘Yeah?’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he nodded, ‘yes, said it would kill me if I weren’t careful,’ looking at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘Seventy-two I am, know that. Kill me! Ha! Bloody idiot.’

‘Did you like old Jim though?’ I asked.

‘Well never really knew him did I? I would’ve though. Yes, I would’ve liked old Jim if we’d spoke. But we never talked much, him and I. Not really.’ He paused for a sip, continued,
‘Knew his brother though – a couple of years older than Jim I think. And a real villain he was. Had a nice wife. I used to do the racetracks then and sometimes met Bert there.’ The old man stopped again, carefully extracting the long dead roll-up from between his lips and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. He took out his tobacco tin and rolled another. ‘Yeah old Bert.’ He lit up. ‘He was a villain. Used to tell me a few things – yes he did know horses and made a good living. Never came in here except to see old Jim.’

‘How did they get on together?’ I asked.

‘Old Jim and Bert?’ He scratched his head. ‘Well. Don’t know. Didn’t say much to each other. Some brothers don’t you know,’ he was looking over his glasses at me, ‘no they’d usually just sit drinking, sometimes laughing. Not talking though. Not much anyway, probably said everything I suppose. Course maybe Jim would ask after Bert’s wife and kids or something.’

‘Was old Jim never married then?’ I asked.