Gus stopped and took a swig of lager.
‘Now, I do not like wearing shoes, I never have,’ began Gus with a smile, to which Sally burst into uncontrollable laughter. I looked on with amusement.
‘If I had my way, I wouldn’t wear any at all,’ said Gus. ‘I think it all goes back to a past life.’
‘Really?’ I exclaimed, not sure where this was leading.
‘Yes, I was regressed once,’ continued Gus, unabated. ‘I was a deckhand on a triangular trade ship from the 1720s, didn’t wear shoes and have hated wearing them ever since.’
Gus sensed the mood change in his audience, stopped speaking and looked at Sally and me and our puzzled stares.
‘He didn’t mention that part before,’ whispered Sally.
‘I can prove it,’ he stated, overhearing her. ‘But that’s another story for another time. We all have been here before, or will be here again.’
Without waiting for either of us to reply to this tangential interlude, Gus continued.
‘As I said, I hate wearing shoes, so, as usual I was sitting with my shoes off under my desk. I heard the voices becoming distinctly louder to my left and saw, out of the corner of my eye, Neil standing up two desks down from me, being introduced to the PM. I hurriedly began to enter the last ticket details into the terminal, eyes fixed on the screen, and desperately searched for my shoes with my feet. I pushed hard with my right foot, squeezing and wiggling my toes inside the slip-on loafer. As my feet had been “free” for a couple of hours under the desk, the shoe felt uncomfortable and restricting. I located the other shoe and pushed into it, feeling the same discomfort, just as I hit the enter key to send the trade details to the exchange.
‘The screen froze just as the chairman gushed behind me, “And this is Augustus, over here with us from your part of the world, Prime Minister.” With his words as my cue, I stood up, my hand out ready, and made eye contact with the politician, when really all I wanted to do was ensure the trade file has been successfully sent. We shook hands for a few moments and held eye contact until his eyes dropped down my body to the area around my feet. My eyes followed, and then I realised the reason for my discomfort. My left shoe was on my right foot, my right on my left, giving my feet an unnatural comical curve effect, pointing away from each other.
‘The Prime Minster stared transfixed in silence for some moments before regaining some composure, and simply uttered, “Quite extraordinary” and moved on to the next desk without another word to me.’
I coughed on my beer as I chuckled. ‘That never happened,’ I argued.
Gus put his hands up in surrender. ‘I swear that it did.’
We quickly learned that he always ended his stories with that phrase – and never explained himself further. From that very first encounter we came to enjoy his tales and assumed them to be tall but highly entertaining.
I remember in the winter of that first year we met, he told a story more outrageous than any of the previous escapades he had shared with us. I believe the weather turning bitterly cold and the first snow flurries blowing through jogged his memory into recalling a time when supposedly he and a group of friends were on a skiing trip in St Moritz in Switzerland. During one evening of après-ski entertainment, they descended to a popular (and expensive) haunt called Roo’s Bar for cocktails. After a number of rounds of margaritas someone in the party stated that the cocktails, though good, were no way up to the standard maintained consistently in a bar he knew in Florida. This point was disputed by a number of the party, who insisted the very bar that they stood in was by far superior.
The debate raged on, with pros and cons for both locations being argued enthusiastically, until it was concluded and decided by a democratic vote that there was only one way to prove the qualities of one bar’s cocktail credentials over the other.
Three taxis were ordered to take the group to the airport, where return tickets for the last flight that night to Miami, via Frankfurt, were purchased. Apparently, fourteen hours later, they were watching in anticipation as the bartender at Club Nikki in Miami Beach poured the contents of a cocktail shaker into nine salt-rimmed margarita glasses.
However, the analysis did not prove conclusive and the group was split on the outcome and debated the merits of cocktails in the warm Florida moonlight against the snow-crisp coolness of Switzerland on the flight back to Frankfurt.
As usual, our incredulous looks contrastedtohis insistence of the tales validity.event.
To my astonishment, some weeks later, on heading to Gus’ for the first time for Christmas drinks, the validity of his story was confirmed. As we waited in the living room, getting our bearings before Gus returned from the kitchen with our drinks, both Sally and I were drawn to two framed photographs on a table; of a group of young men in brightly coloured ski clothes all pointing and looking upward, wide smiles on each of their faces in both shots. Their attention was directed at the names of the establishments they stood in front of. One had a subtly backlit sign saying Roo’s Bar; the other spelt out Club Nikki in gaudy neon strips. Studying the identical subjects and clothing, we had no reason to believe that these photographs hadn’t been taken within a few hours of each other, or that the tall, slim, blond figure at the back wasn’t Gus.
That is when we looked at Gus’ stories in a totally different light, but still the reason why he chose to leave that lifestyle and live among us is unknown.
And now I took my seat opposite him in Malacy’s Bar, as is always the case on Sunday evenings. We belong to the Numquam Vincere pub quiz team. Malacy only introduced the quiz night to exploit a loophole in the strict licencing hours that have been held firm on Sundays for years; whereby, if an establishment provides entertainment, they are permitted to stay open two hours longer than a standard bar. Dancing, live bands, comedy and organised quizzes are all deemed to be entertainment under this rule. Malacy, being a prudent and thrifty publican, saw the quiz option as the cheapest and easiest to organise. And so for the past four years, Sunday night has been quiz night.
Gus chose the name and informed the non-Latin-speakers amongst us, actually the rest of the team, that it meant ‘The Invincibles’, and we had no reason to doubt him. Although, we have never actually won!
The team is balanced. Clifford knows his geography, Mary takes control of the regular anagram and picture rounds, and Sally with her love of books is essential for any literature questions. I have a bizarre skill of remembering lyrics and band names that should be confined to the great jukebox in the sky. Gus mops up the more obscure questions – that have everyone else looking up at the ceiling, scratching their heads and puffing out their cheeks – with an ease that defies belief.
‘Canada.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Canada,’ repeated Gus as we waited for the sheets and pens to be passed around the tables in preparation for the start of the quiz. ‘I was just saying to Clifford before you arrived, Canada is the place we should all think of moving to.’
I laughed, not knowing where his latest tale was leading.
‘I am serious,’ he continued. ‘They speak English, have no quarrel with any other country and have a sound economy. It’s a huge country, so real estate is cheap and there is so much to do outdoors, totally different lifestyle to here.’
‘Yes, and as I said,’ added Clifford, ‘it is covered in snow and ice for five months of the year with temperatures way below freezing, and a quarter of the population speak French. You haven’t thought it through, Gus.’
‘Ah, but you are forgetting one thing,’ replied Gus, sipping his drink.
‘The baby seals,’ said Mary.
‘What?’ we responded in unison.
‘The baby seals, they are really cruel to baby seals. Track them over the ice and club them until they are dead. It’s awful.’
‘Yes, I have seen that, Gus,’ I
admitted.
‘Forget about the seals for a moment,’ retorted Gus, trying to not lose his audience.
‘But it’s cruel, Gus,’ stated Mary again.
‘I appreciate that, but here is the thing,’ continued Gus, undeterred. ‘Global warming is going to warm Canada up! So Clifford’s point of five months of snow and ice will become a thing of the past. Add that to the other positives – the English-speaking parts of the country, the peaceful people, the huge expanses of land to buy and build on – and it is sounds near perfect,’ summed up Gus, as if in front of members of a Crown Court jury.
‘What about the dog mess?’ enquired Clifford, unimpressed.
‘Clifford!’ shouted Mary at her husband. ‘That’s enough of that.’
‘What are you talking about?!’ demanded Gus with a chuckle.
‘I will tell you,’ began Clifford, looking warily at Mary. ‘In the winter, because it is so cold, when people walk their dogs in the cities and towns, they do not bother to pick up the mess their dogs make. Instead it freezes and gets buried under the snow, not to be seen again. Well, not to be seen again until the springtime when the ground warms up and the snow melts, as does the dogs’ mess – unbelievable stench.’
Clifford glanced toward Mary, ready to pre-empt any response.
‘Yes, but that is my point: there will not be any snow or freezing conditions, so the problem will be eradicated,’ stated Gus.
‘But how do you know they will not continue to let their dogs do it, snow or no snow?’
‘Now, Clifford, that is quite enough.’
‘I was just saying, Mary,’ he replied, knowing, on hearing his wife’s words, to cease his participation in the conversation.
‘Okay, when I get there, I will lobby for all the people who want to do this after global warming to move to the French-speaking parts. They could pretend they are in Paris!’
We all laughed hard, so much so that our competitors on the other tables looked around at the sound of the commotion.
‘But what about the seals, Gus? You still need to address the problem with the baby seals,’ said Mary sincerely.
‘There won’t be any ice, Mary, so the seals will be gone – nothing stays the same,’ answered Gus flatly. ‘Where’s Sally?’ he asked before Mary could reply.
‘She had a meeting with the people from the supermarket about her honey. Thought she would be here by now,’ I informed the assembled team.
‘Meeting on a Sunday?’ said Clifford gruffly. ‘That’s disgraceful of them; don’t they let people have peace?’
‘Clifford, that’s no different to you tending your sheep on a Sunday,’ Mary pointed out.
‘My sheep have no brains! Need checking every day. Surely a meeting could wait until a Monday.’
‘Capitalism never sleeps, Clifford!’ Gus joked.
‘Anyway, your sheep are in good company with you!’ teased Mary, thrusting her elbow playfully into her husband’s side.
‘What are you two, a double act?’ he retorted with mock annoyance.
‘Meant to say, Gus, I cannot make the walk on Thursday,’ I said quickly.
‘Oh,’ he replied with disappointment.
‘Sorry, I have a school booking.’
‘That’s a shame; the weather is set to be good, would have been perfect for trekking Smugglers Path.. But I could head down to the city instead; catch up with a couple of fellas I haven’t seen in a while – liquid lunch and tea!’ He chuckled.
‘They are fascinating, by the way,’ stated Clifford to no one in particular.
‘Sorry?’ replied Mary. ‘Who is fascinating?’
I shook my head and wondered too what Clifford was bringing to the conversation.
‘Bees!’ he stated, raising his voice.
‘No need to shout, you old fool, you!’ hissed Mary back at him.
‘Why is that, Clifford?’ asked Gus.
Clifford folded his arm over his chest, content he now had a captured audience.
‘Well, let me tell you,’ he began. ‘Inside each hive, they have a perfect society: every bee has a role, a duty, and every bee has a purpose – for a worker this changes during her lifespan. Did you know; they perform a dance that gives directions to a new source of nectar for the others to follow?’ He waited for a response, but none was forthcoming, so he carried on regardless. ‘The hierarchy inside,’ he continued, ‘always holds, and every bee will defend a nest to the end. In their minds they are still forest-dwellers, so when a keeper puffs smoke into a hive to commence an inspection, they assume the colony is under attack from a forest fire and aim to protect the hive and the most important thing in it.’
‘The queen?’ I suggested helpfully.
‘Yes, exactly,’ answered Clifford, not really listening to me. ‘No! No! Not the queen!’ he corrected himself. ‘Although she is extremely important. No, they protect the honey they have produced and stored as a food source, taped up in combs. Guess how they protect it?’
‘Little bee-sized guns!’ came Mary’s suggestion.
‘And maybe buzz bombs?’ chipped in Gus.
‘Little bee-sized guns? Buzz bombs?’ replied an agitated Clifford. ‘No, they eat it up, as fast as they can, to ensure their life’s work is not destroyed. And in doing this, they experience a sugar rush that makes them initially energised, but quickly very sleepy, very docile, so the keeper can examine their hive while preserving their safety and the bees’. If you manage a hive properly the colony will be content to stay. They are forgiving and will tolerate the regular removal of a portion of their honey, the attack on their home, the partial destruction of the cells they have built. But if a keeper neglects the bees, they will have nothing to repair and will outgrow the hive and abandon it, merge into a swarm to find a new home. Sally must be skilled at keeping her bees happy; she’s never had a swarm, has she?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘Why are you boring us about this anyway?’ asked Mary matter-of-factly.
‘I will tell you why: guess how they attack invaders to their hive?’ asked Clifford, smiling knowingly. ‘And no, it doesn’t involve buzz bombs,’ he added.
‘Sting them?’ suggested Mary wearily.
‘Can’t be, they die if they use their sting,’ I contributed.
‘Exactly,’ said Clifford. ‘That is a very, very last resort.’
The table went quiet.
‘Shall I tell you?’
‘If you must,’ sighed Mary.
‘They cover the intruder completely and rapidly vibrate their bodies, causing the temperature around the victim to rise very quickly.’ Clifford nodded excitedly as we looked on.
‘So?’ Mary shrugged.
‘They cook them alive! Anything that gets too close to their hive,’ he proclaimed. ‘Imagine that: little bees being able to work such a thing out? Such an effective method, they really are amazing.’
‘I’ve never heard such nonsense!’ replied Mary.
Clifford put up his hands. ‘Gus, you are a clever chap, you tell her,’ he pleaded.
‘Well, I have heard they will attack hornets that raid the hive in this way, but not any other creature, to be honest,’ confessed Gus.
‘It’s any creature,’ insisted Clifford, ‘people included.’
We all looked at each other and collectively laughed.
‘They don’t cover people and attack them, Clifford!’ I insisted.
‘Yes they do, you mark my words!’ he replied, trying to keep the upper hand over those of us who found his statement impossible to believe.
‘Here she is now,’ said Mary through her laughter, looking over my shoulder as Sally walked in through the door.
She took her seat next to me and greeted everyone across the table in her usual cheery way.<
br />
‘My round,’ declared Gus, standing up and heading to the bar.
‘How did the meeting go?’ asked Mary politely.
‘Pardon?’ replied Sally, seemingly startled.
‘The meeting, Eddie said you were seeing that supermarket about buying your honey. How did it go?’
‘Oh, you know, facts, figures, that kind of thing. Think we will have to meet again to finalise everything,’ stated Sally vaguely.
‘Well,’ injected Clifford, ‘I still think it is wrong they made you do it on a Sunday.’
‘Oh, Clifford, go and talk to your sheep! She’s a woman trying to get on. Baaaaa!’ Mary added for good measure. That made me laugh, and eventually cracked Clifford’s face into a smile.
‘Sorry, I don’t understand,’ replied Sally, looking confused at Mary and Clifford, but not at me.
‘Everything okay?’ I asked instinctively out of the side of my mouth, but not knowing why I wanted to check.
‘Yes, yes, why shouldn’t it be?’ Sally replied, not looking at me.
‘Okay, first question, people!’ The quizmaster’s voice came over the microphone.
I couldn’t understand this feeling of uneasiness I was sensing from Sally, or why she was avoiding eye contact with me. She seemed fine when she left earlier today to meet with the supermarket representative.
‘Who shot Ronald Reagan, the fortieth President of the United States?’
All four of us sat around, looking at each other, then up to the ceiling for inspiration.
The quizmaster repeated the question a further three times. And with each reading, our ability to extract the answer from among us did not improve.
‘John Hinckley Junior, March 30th 1981,’ Gus whispered nonchalantly, returning with the drinks on a tray.
‘Of course!’ said Clifford, writing down the answer on our behalf.
Chasing the Sun with Henry Page 8
