Anyway. Why The Two Bob Bouncer was called that was now beginning to eat at me. Nobody seemed to know! By now people were beginning to get fed up of me asking the question, and if anyone ever asked him directly, as I had found out before he would just grin and then carry on as if no-one had said a word. A couple of weeks later I overhead one of the foremen, “The Mirror” (“Whatever you do reflects on me”), talking to another foreman, “The Sheriff” (“what’s the hold-up” ) about The Two Bob Bouncer, and that he was due to retire at the end of June. That was less than three weeks away. I decided to step up my efforts to find out where he had got his name from.
To no result whatsoever. Quite simply, nobody knew. It was strange really to see anyone you cared to ask draw a blank. It was almost as if something had been hidden right under their noses, and they had never noticed it. There were then usual theories, but nobody really knew. Not even the Dockers who seemed to have been there forever. Presumably The Two Bob Bouncer had been there longer than them and the origin of his name was therefore before their time. Whatever the reason, nobody could cast a light on where he got his name from. Weeks passed. The Two Bob Bouncer of course, had nothing to say about it at all. Even on his last day he stayed quiet, and slowly I became resigned to never finding out.
That last day we were all working on a dirty cargo set for the Dunlop works. We called it carbon black, or just, “the black”. You would get a special pay rate for handling it, though God only knows what it did to us. It wouldn’t happen now. Health and safety would have a bloody fit. Anyhow, we are all down in the hold as the stuff was hauled up over the dock and into wagons parked on the quayside. It was dirty, hard work and we were all exhausted. Once we were done one by one the gang made their way back to the dock. I was fair knackered, covered from head to foot in this bloody awful black stuff, and was slower to make my way up than most of the others. We all looked as if we had been working down a bloody mine! I was slumped against a packing case trying to raise some energy to move when I realised that there was only me and The Two Bob Bouncer left. I had to laugh. He was about to retire and he looked as if he had more energy left in him than the rest of us put together! Certainly more than me, anyway! He was standing on a packing case on the other side of the hold, looking up at the bright sunlight shining through from up above. He too was black from head to foot, and he seemed lost in his thoughts.
“Why are you so interested in why they call me The Two Bob Bouncer?” he suddenly said. He was not even looking at me. As I replied the sun hit him from up above until he looked like some kind of huge statue made of black stone.
“Just being nosey, like.” I said defensively, and still without looking at me he grinned at that.
“Fifty years on the dock.” he whispered, and it was almost as if he was talking to himself. “Where did it go?” Then he seemed to come to a decision.
“Have you got two Bob on you?” He asked. Still looking up at the sun. Two Bob was a fair old bit of money back then, though. That’s two shillings to you. He must have read my mind. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back.” and I noticed that he pulled a two Bob bit out of his pocket. I did the same. Wondering what he wanted another one for.
“Catch.” I said, and threw it at him even though he wasn’t even looking at me. He was still gazing up at the sun, the other two Bob bit in his hand. Without looking he caught it with his other hand easily. Somehow I knew he would.
“This.” he said, turning to face me now, the pair of us alone in the hold, both as black as the ace of spades. Him standing on top of the crate, the sun pouring down from above.
“This is why they call me The Two Bob Bouncer.” And he threw both of the coins high into the air. They sparkled in the sunlight before they slowly fell back down and he caught both of them on the back of his hands. Then he started to move them from knuckle to knuckle, flipping them across the back of his fingers in each hand. When they got to the end he flicked them back to the start and began again. Both hands at the same time. It was an amazing thing to watch. Then he began to get faster, the coins almost a blur now, moving rapidly across the back of his hands, tumbling, bouncing from finger to finger. Flick. Back again. Faster. Flick. Faster still. Until the coins became a silver blur, and all the time he smiled. Never even looked at them. Just smiling at me. Faster still. Then the coins danced. After a minute or so as I stood mesmerised he gave them a final flick and both of the coins flew into the air and he caught them. Threw one back to me.
“That was amazing.” I began to stutter, but The Two Bob Bouncer was already down off the crate and on his way out of the hold. I just stood there stunned as silence fell all around me. I eventually too headed up to leave, but by the time I had got my stuff together The Two Bob Bouncer had already gone.
Do you know that was some forty years ago, and I swear I’ll never forget those coins flying across his hands. It was like a miracle. As if they had defied the law of gravity or some such thing. Even now, so many years later I can still see him in mind. As if it was yesterday. Tall as a statue up on the crate, bathed in sunlight, coins flying across the backs of his hands as he just stood there and smiled.
But do you know the strangest bit? I have never told anyone before about it. Why The Two Bob Bouncer was called that. Sad really, if anyone other than me remembers him they have no clue why he was called that at all. Or at least that’s what I think. Mind you. I don’t suppose anyone would believe me, to be honest.
But there you go. You heard it here first.
"Nec Aspera Terrent"
There’s a unique, wonderful smell to a real traditional Scouse pub. It’s a strange old mix of stale beer and fags. Now bear in mind I’m not talking about any of your flash clubs or upmarket stuff now. I’m talking about a real old fashioned Liverpool pub. The kind of place where you go to drink beer and if you feel like it chat to some of your mates that just might happen to be in there at the time. It is the kind of place where all the drinks were brown, black or gold. No blue or green or pink crap or any of that sort of stuff that all of the kids seem to drink these days. No. I’m talking about the traditional pubs, though I suppose they are all slowly disappearing now. There’s still plenty left in Liverpool though if you know where to look, though you won’t find them advertised in the Echo. The only social events these places take part in are sing songs on a Saturday night, darts mid-week, and that’s your lot. It is the kind of place I dreamed of when I was out in Afghanistan.
I don’t have to dream any more, of course. The IED that blew off my left leg from the knee down fixed that one for me. A couple of months in an army hospital and then back home with a pension. Oh, and only one leg of course. One and a half if you want to get really technical about it. Could have been worse. The bloke who was standing next to me when it went off was more or less cut in half. No pension for him. Some days I wish I was him. But the nights are the worse. Sometimes I can feel my left leg. It even itches. But it’s the nightmares that are the worse. I’ve been assessed for post injury trauma and all that and they reckon that I’m okay. Perhaps they would change their minds if they could see me in the early hours of the morning when I’m lying awake. The cold sweats.
My artificial leg is like a metal strut that attaches to the base of what’s left of my real leg. It looks like some sort of mechanical thing, I suppose. I could have had something that resembled a tailor’s dummy’s’ leg. They even said that if I chose to do that then they could get it to match my skin tone. I told them I’d rather let people see what had happened to me. I didn’t want it to be a secret. I didn’t want it to be hidden. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not proud of it. It’s not some kind of stupid trophy or badge of honour or any of that kind of thing. I do refuse to cover it up though. All the pants I wear I cut the left leg off at the knee. It’s half me being bloody stubborn and refusing to cover it up and the other half trying my best to keep it cool. Take it from me, that bloody thing itches like hell and it gets hot as well. At least keeping it exposed to the air k
eeps it from getting too warm.
Kids are fascinated by it. They look at me as if I am some kind of robot, and they frequently stop and stare, pointing at me, asking questions, before their mum or dad pull them away. I sometimes pull faces at them, or do something to make them laugh. The kids don’t get on my nerves at all. It’s the looks of sympathy that do my head in. But the worst ones are the ones where they pretend not to notice at all. You can see the shock on their faces when they first clock the leg, and from then onwards it’s... what’s the expression? Oh yeah. Like there’s an elephant in the room. Sometimes I’ll sit down and take the bloody thing off just to spite them. Go on then, soft lad - ignore that!
Did it on the bus the other day. That of course is when I become invisible. Suits me. Better than the other looks they were giving me. It really freaks the kids out, though. When I do that you should see their faces. Like I’m a monster off Doctor Who or something. Worth doing just for a laugh, though.
So. That’s my dancing career over, and as the old joke goes I’ll probably never play the piano again, so how do I pass my time? The dole office is keen for me to sign up for some disability related back to work scheme but they can do one. It’s a proper job or nothing. Until them I’m happy to wander the streets and spend a few hours in the pub each day. I don’t always go to the same pubs though. I do need to exercise the leg so sometimes I wander a bit further afield from where I live, though I only ever bother with the old traditional pubs. It seems less likely I’ll come across anyone of my own age in one of them is one of the reasons I seek them out. The other is that in there most people just leave you alone. Have a beer. Play the slotty. Go home. Simple. No one seems arsed about the leg which is fine by me.
On the day I’m going to tell you about I was half way between the docks and home and found what looked like a real contender of a pub on the corner of a quiet street. Real dingy and dusty looking. Perfect. I opened the door, and as I said before the smell of stale beer hits you straight away. I can usually tell almost immediately when I go into a pub I’ve never been in to before whether it’s going to be any good or not. Just by the smell. Today I was definitely on to a winner.
I had entered by the bar, which was relatively small, but I could see across it into the lounge that that part of the pub was not much bigger. It was also closed. I propped the stick up against the wall and waited for the barman to appear. Oh. I forgot to mention the stick, didn’t I? I don’t need it a lot of the time but if I’m off for a wander then it helps if I get tired. I don’t need it to walk now, though there was a period of time when I did. Anyway. The barman appeared as I had a quick look around the room. Wooden floor throughout, a bit of a dart board on the other side and a few stools at the bar itself. Behind me, by the window, three small round tables. Stools on one side, a long low bench kind of thing running behind them against the wall. Perfect.
“What are you having, mate?” the barman asked and I ordered a pint of bitter and he began to pull it. The bar was almost empty. There were two blokes having a casual game of darts, just whiling away their lunch break, by the look of it. The only other person in there was an old guy sitting at a stool by the bar, upon which in front of him was a newspaper. He seemed to be doing a crossword. Every old pub in Liverpool of course has a little old man sitting at the end of the bar. Any good pub, anyway. It is always the way in Liverpool. This guy was impeccably dressed. Neatly pressed trousers. Blazer. All that was missing was the medals. Anyway, they all completely ignored me, which was fine. I paid for the beer and took a seat against the wall. I rested the stick on one side of me and had a sip. It was great.
I should at this point really explain that at best during my daily jaunts I would probably at the most have two pints of beer. Two and a half at a push. It wasn’t about the drinks, you see. It was about losing myself. As if by being there I was a part of something but at the same time not sticking out. It’s hard to explain, really. That’s how I felt though. While I’m at it I also I need to explain the art of drinking beer slowly. The secret is to sip, and not sup. I could very easily make a beer last an hour without even thinking about it. I liked to take my time. It’s not as if I don’t have plenty of that to spare now, is it?
So there I sat as the sun streamed through the frosted glass half windows from behind me, reflecting the dust that caught the light, splashing on the stained, sticky looking wooden floor. So I became invisible. The two men playing darts upped and went after about three quarters of an hour and the barman disappeared into the bar to do something or another. “Give us a shout if anyone needs anything, John” he said to the old man who was still sat on his stool at the bar engrossed in his crossword, who merely nodded and returned to his paper, resting his pen on the bar and peering at his puzzle. From time to time he would quickly pick it up again and make a few scribbles then put it down again. So there we sat. Sun through the windows and the occasional sound of cars passing on the street outside. I could have sat there all day. After about an hour though I decided to get another pint. Leaving the stick by the table I took the empty back to the bar and rapped my knuckles on it to summon the barman who was still missing.
The old man sat at the bar looked up from his paper and over his thick black glasses he had balanced on the end of his nose. “Billy!” he shouted, looking at me and the barman re-appeared. I ordered another pint and he proceeded to pour it. The old bloke, or John, as the barman had called him, took his glasses off and put them on top of his newspaper. “Afghanistan was it?” He asked. “Or Iraq?” I just looked at him.
“Afghanistan.” I more or less mumbled. This had taken a turn for the worse. If my pint hadn’t been almost already poured I’d have had a half and got off. Too late now. Billy the barman just ignored both of us and carried on pouring the pint before placing it on the bar.
“I’ll get this one, Billy” said the old man and reached inside his jacket.
“Nah. It’s alright mate.” I said. “I can buy my own beer, thanks.” The way I said it made it perfectly clear that was the end of it. John nodded at me and his hand came out of his pocket empty.
“Fair enough.” he said, “Though there’s nothing wrong with an old soldier buying a beer for another ex-soldier.”
“I don’t want charity, mate.” I said, and it came out more of a growl than a statement. It was meant to.
“Charity’s got nothing to do with It.” the old guy said, “But suit yourself.” He picked up his pen again and returned to his crossword. Ignoring him I picked up my pint and returned to my seat. I was thinking that the second pint was going to go down much quicker than the first one.
At the bar John put down his pen again and turned on his stool to face me. “First Lancs was it?” he asked, referring to my regiment. It was of course impossible for any two ex-servicemen to meet without swapping this crucial piece of information. He was bang on as well.
“Yes.” I replied tersely, and John nodded.
“Kings.” he said, pointing with his thumb to himself. I merely nodded, wanting the conversation to stop there. I had a sup of my pint. John was still watching me.
“You know the regimental motto?” he asked and I nodded, though I couldn’t really see the relevance.
“Nec Aspera Terrent.” I said, and he nodded, as if this was some kind of test. It looked as if I had passed.
“Come on a bit they have.” he said, pointing to the metal strapped to the stump of what was left of my leg. It was a funny thing really. Despite always having it exposed to anyone who dared to look at it, it really got me would up when anybody actually had the guts to mention it.
“Right.” I said. “Remind me to compliment the hospital on it next time I pop in to have it polished.” John just looked at me and smiled. That somehow made me even madder than I already was. I took another sup of my pint. It was already nearly half gone. I just wanted out of there by now, but my temper got the best of me. “Anyway.” I snarled. “What the hell do you know about it?”
John sm
iled again and I could feel my colour rising. Then slowly he leaned forward and raised his left trouser leg to reveal the end of what was very obviously a plastic leg. Noticing my shock John grinned again.
“Snap.” he said as he lowered his trouser leg. “Same leg, even.” I simply nodded. “So I’ll think you find I do know a fair bit about it.” He took a sip of what looked like half of mild.
“Sorry.” I said, and meant it.
“I don’t want your sympathy.” he said but he wasn’t being entirely serious I could tell. He was just spitting back at me what was by now my favourite put down. No charity. No sympathy. Can’t be hurt that way. Can’t be reminded that way.
Paul McCartney's Coat Page 20
