The Penultimate Chance Saloon

by Simon Brett

  Bill knew the phenomenon was partly an effect of the weather. The first really warm day of summer had rendered jackets redundant and brought out the breasts. Sleeveless tops emphasised that strange engineering of muscle between arms and breasts which was always so intriguing to men. Straps drew the focus tighter, and straps had proliferated since Bill Stratton’s young day. For his mother a visible bra strap would have been as appalling a social gaffe as a shiny, unpowdered nose, but the girls he saw in the sun on Vauxhall Bridge seemed determined to show as many straps as possible, and in as many different colours (a lack of coordination which would again have appalled his mother).

  He didn’t know if it was Virginia Fairbrother’s kiss of the night before which was setting him off, but Bill found himself, for the God-knew-how-many-millionth time, puzzling over the mechanics of lust. The breasts which had suddenly sprung up all around him were undoubtedly attractive, and undoubtedly made him think of sex. In an abstract way, he wanted to touch all of them, but he knew he couldn't – and indeed shouldn't. (He also knew, because he was well brought up, that he wouldn’t.)

  And if he did, he knew the contact would only lead to disillusionment. The chances of actually getting on with a woman whose breasts you wanted to touch in a public place were, he knew, infinitesimal. That perfect face and body glimpsed on the up escalator when you were going down was never, outside the world of romantic fiction, going to lead to the perfect relationship.

  And yet the male lust reaction still responded every time, clicking into action like an automatic door everyone walks past but no one wants to go through. Breasts in public places are just a come-on, which every man knows will lead to disappointment, but which every man, like one of Pavlov’s oldest and shaggiest dogs, still responds to.

  By Bill Stratton’s standards, that was quite a profound thought. But he didn't let it trouble him. Some days the prevalence of breasts could bring him down, make him reflect on his age, which was increasing, and his sexual experience, which hadn't increased for nearly forty years. But that morning, the breasts did not reproach him. They were just more of the beauties of London, sights to be seen. That morning nothing could shake Bill Strattons mood. That morning Bill Stratton felt blithe.

  Not only blithe, but positively virtuous. Approaching sixty, Bill had recently been summoned for a ‘Well Man MOT by his private health insurers, and the resulting report had been surprisingly positive. Yes, a few components were showing signs of wear, but no more than should be expected in a mechanism of that age. His teeth might need some attention before too long. He should probably drink less, and losing a little weight wouldn’t hurt, but basically he was not a bad specimen of a male approaching his seventieth decade.

  He was also encouraged to take more exercise, hence the small glow of virtue he derived from walking the short distance over Vauxhall Bridge. Since his check-up, he used taxis a lot less for short journeys. Without going to the lengths of buying a bicycle, he walked a lot more and even paid a weekly visit to a gym. Bill was genetically fortunate in that he was never going to put on a lot of weight, but his new regime had reduced the incipient spare tyre around his waist. He was well aware – and if he hadn’t been, Sal Juster’s constant reminders would have made him aware – that a continuing supply of presentation work required him to take care of his appearance.

  As ever, Carolyn had Radio Two and a cigarette on, and didn’t hear Bill letting himself into the office. She was photocopying, with her back to him.

  Again, it was probably his meeting with Ginnie the evening before that made him aware of what a particularly nice back Carolyn had. Like the breasts on Vauxhall Bridge, her curves were archetypally female, and Bill felt an urge he never had before; to place his hands on his employee’s ample bottom.

  Resisting was not difficult, but the fact that he had felt the temptation put him into a state of pleasant bewilderment. The confusions of the divorce had dammed up many of his feelings, and it was good to know they were beginning to trickle back.

  Hopefully unaware of his thoughts, Carolyn became aware of his presence, and turned to face him. Her blue eyes held their usual scepticism, seeming to demand that everyone she met should prove themselves to her.

  Bill found himself wondering whether she behaved the same in more intimate circumstances. Would a lover too have to face the hard challenge in those eyes? He racked his brains to remember the little he knew of Carolyn’s private life. The undeniable existence of Jason predicated the existence of a father for him, but Bill didn’t know whether or not Carolyn had been married. He felt pretty sure she was no longer married, if she ever had been. Nor did he get the impression that she had a live-in partner. Perhaps, in her sixties, she had given up all thoughts of having a love life (which, given how nice her back and her curves were, Bill thought was a waste ... for someone). All he knew for certain was that Carolyn’s generalised cynicism became particularly intense when she spoke of men.

  ‘So ... the big boss,’ she said, as she always did, her intonation at the same time confirming that Bill was the big boss, and subtly questioning his right to the role. Her voice was unreconstructed South London. The years she had spent in publishing had not been allowed to sand down the roughness of her origins, and the cigarettes she had puffed throughout those years had accentuated it. There was no ‘side’ to Carolyn. People took her as they found her, or not at all. And it had to be said that, throughout her career, people had been very happy to take her as they found her.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Bill, as he always did.

  She shrugged. ‘The stuff comes in. People still want the stuff. What more can you ask?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Tea?’

  He always said yes. The fact that he never drank tea outside the BWOC office was irrelevant. When Carolyn had first offered him tea, without the option of coffee, he’d accepted. And when she’d produced a cup that was heavily sugared, he had not demurred. Though sugar in any other form rarely passed his lips, it was part of his tea ritual with Carolyn, and he didn’t dare to change any detail. He wasn’t exactly frightened of her, but he could imagine the derision with which she would greet his announcement of what he really liked in the way of beverages. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Bill, you idiot, why didn’t you say ...?’

  It was the same with the cigarettes. Neither Andrea nor he had ever smoked, although quite a lot of her NHS friends did. Without actually asking them to desist, Andrea had always made much of opening windows and fanning the air in the Putney kitchen. As a result, though Bill had echoed his wife’s opinion whenever the subject came up, smoking held a guilty allure for him. Though he’d never take up the habit himself, he got a charge out of sharing Carolyn’s cigarette-fuelled decadence.

  The sweet hot tea tasted wonderful. Sweet hot tea is a traditional treatment for people in shock, and that morning Bill Stratton did feel as if he were in a state of shock ... or at least in a state of comfortable confusion.

  'Very good thing you and Andrea split up,’ said Carolyn, typically direct.

  ‘What?’ asked Bill, who had not been expecting something quite so typically direct.

  ‘I was amazed you stayed together so long. You never had anything in common.’

  ‘I think we did.’

  ‘Like what?’ A characteristically confrontational challenge.

  ‘Well ... well – We had the big house in Putney.’

  Even as he said the words, Bill knew they weren’t enough. But he was having great difficulty in coming up with any other answers to the question.

  Carolyn snorted a reaction, but didn’t pursue the subject. ‘Anyway ... how’re you getting over the divorce?’

  ‘Don’t feel too bad.’ Bill was relieved that the questions had got easier.

  ‘No, well, it’s all right for men. Always somehow come out of that kind of situation on top. Women need marriage – for many of them it’s the only security they’ve got. But, come the break-up, it’s men who always do best. Just one m
ore of the advantages of being born with a tassel.’

  Carolyn’s views on the male of the species had nothing to do with feminism. In fact, they predated feminism by a long time. They reflected the accumulated observations of working class women over the centuries; that their menfolk were fundamentally lazy, and couldn’t be trusted any further than you could see them.

  Though he might have argued gender politics in more sophisticated company, Bill found Carolyn’s attitude obscurely comforting. When a woman started from such a low base of expectation, there was much less chance of a man disappointing her. And men go through life in doom-laden fear of disappointing women.

  ‘I like to think Andrea and I have achieved a civilised divorce.’

  Carolyn blew out a derisive stream of smoke. ‘No such thing. You’ll both be seething vats of nit-picking resentments for the rest of your lives.’

  ‘You may be right. But that’s certainly not the way either of us is feeling at the moment.’

  ‘How do you know what Andrea’s feeling?’

  ‘She’s married to Dewi, who is apparently the great love of her life. She’s able to be a Mother Hen to his children, which is apparently one of her lifetime ambitions. She has all the relationships she’s ever wanted. I would imagine she’s very happy.’

  ‘And how about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you got all the relationships you ever wanted?’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m asking whether you’ve started on the geriatric dating trawl yet.’

  ‘I think it’s still a bit early after the break-up.’

  ‘I thought you said that you were feeling fine.’

  ‘Yes. But I want to get my breath. I don’t want to rush into another long-term commitment.’

  ‘I asked about dating, not long-term commitments. And I must say you’re unusual even to mention the idea. Most men I’ve met wouldn’t recognise a long-term commitment if it came up and slapped them in the face.’ Carolyn’s knee-jerk reaction had kicked in. The male gender could not be mentioned without a reference to its perfidy.

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘Well, you should be. I know how old you are from the biog on the books. How long do you reckon you’ve got left?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘Then you should have done. And don’t just think about life expectancy, think in terms of active life. You should be cramming in as much activity as you can before everything drops off.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing, Carolyn?’

  Here was an opportunity to find out a little detail about her domestic circumstances, but the question was deflected by a brusque ‘Chance’d be a fine thing.’

  ‘I think your prognosis is a bit gloomy. You make it sound as if I’m in the Last Chance Saloon.’

  ‘Damn nearly.’

  Bill took a swallow of the wickedly sweet tea before redirecting the conversation. ‘So ... any good new ones?’

  This was another part of their regular routine. To maintain the illusion that Bill had something useful to contribute to the running of BWOC, Carolyn would read out to him the pick of the latest by way of contrast stories. He loved the way she did this, totally flat, without a flicker of intonation, always reminding him of a woman in a joke shop who’d once sold him ‘one Comedy Nose, rubbery; one Tomahawk Through Head; one Dirty Dog Poo’, without cracking a smile.

  But he knew Carolyn’s choice of delivery was deliberate. She didn’t lack a sense of humour; her selection of the funniest items was unerring. She was just aware of the power of the deadpan.

  ‘...and, “by way of contrast,”’ she concluded, reading from the screen in front of her, ‘“a man in Lytham St Anne’s has perfected a method of speaking to gerbils, though he cannot yet understand what they’re saying back to him.”’

  ‘Good,’ said Bill. ‘There seems to be no end to the supply.’

  ‘The world’s never going to run out of triviality – or people who prefer to hide behind it than face real life.’ Carolyn kept coming up with remarks whose profundity was at odds with her blonde image. Beneath the deadpan surface, there was a lot more than met the eye.

  ‘Presumably you’d like them printed up?’ she went on, though the question did not need to be asked. Bill always wanted them printed up. His memory was still good, and he’d commit the latest list to heart. A new supply of funnies often proved useful at social occasions. Without waiting for his answer, Carolyn tucked a new cigarette into the corner of her mouth, clicked her mouse and the printer lurched into action. Its sound was large in the silence.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Takes his time, but he’ll come eventually.’

  Bill instantly caught the reference. The printer did sound remarkably like an asthmatic approaching orgasm. He smiled and was rewarded by the flash of a knowing grin from Carolyn.

  It was twelve-thirty when he said he ought to leave. For a moment, the unprecedented idea hovered in his mind of asking Carolyn to join him for a spot of lunch. But he didn’t voice it.

  Chapter Four

  ... and, by way of contrast,

  a man in Cirencester, accused of disorderly

  behaviour after drinking two bottles of whisky, asked

  for another case to be taken into consideration.

  The trouble is,’ said Trevor, ‘that life’s too bloody short...’

  ‘Hm,’ said Bill, neither supporting nor contesting the assertion.

  ‘...and at the same time it’s too bloody long. I mean, what were all looking for is something that changes time ... speeds it up, slows it down... though usually we want it speeded up...’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise it all takes too bloody long.’

  ‘What takes too bloody long?’

  ‘Life.’

  ‘Ah.’

  They were sitting in a pub in Bayswater, not far from Trevor’s flat. In fact, very near Trevor’s flat. The nearest pub, which Trevor regarded virtually as an annexe to the flat. In fact, he called it ‘The Annexe’. ‘Fancy meeting up for a drink in The Annexe?’ was his customary summons, the one that got Bill there that evening.

  They’d known each other for decades. Trevor had been an aspiring television news editor when Bill Stratton had started reading the bulletins. And they’d stayed friends, riding the rollercoaster of Trevor’s professional and emotional life. Once, in a moment of sodden soppiness, he’d said, ‘Wives may come and go, but a good friend like you, Bill mate, that’s for ever.’

  Trevor’s most recent wife had been his fourth, but she’d left him, for much the same reasons as the first three. The BBC had indicated too that their relationship had had to end, but had at least left him with a pension which was sufficient for the maintenance of his small flat. And almost sufficient for the maintenance of its annexe.

  Bill recognised the stage Trevor was at that evening. Stage Two. The effects of the lunchtime drinking had dissipated, leaving him low and self-hating. The first evening drink had diluted the gloom, creating a trance-like state in which he was prone to making remarks which sounded like profound gems of philosophy. Despite the portentousness of their delivery, all of these observations were complete cobblers. Later in the evening Trevor would become raucous and, at least in his own estimation, extraordinarily witty. Then, as his drinking companions drifted away, he would grow morose, and mourn his single state as, to his eyes, the nothing-to-write-home-about barmaid grew more and more beautiful.

  Bill reconciled himself to hearing more pearls of philosophical wisdom, and sure enough they came.

  ‘Thing is,’ Trevor went on, ‘life’s a con-trick, really, but by the time you realise that, you’re too caught up in the whole business to do much about it. And you’re too old, too. By the time you realise what you should be doing, you’ve already done most of it.’

  ‘Someone once said that experience is a comb that life gives you when you’ve lost your hai
r.’

  ‘Well, he bloody hit the nail on the head, Bill, that bloke ... whoever he was.’ Trevor cast a mournful eye at his friend. ‘Mind you, you’re doing all right in that respect. You’ve still got some hair.’

  ‘White, though.’

  ‘If I’d got as much hair as you have, you wouldn’t find me being picky about the colour. Anyway, if it bothers you, you could dye it.

  ‘It doesn’t bother me that much. Anyway, I don’t want to go around with copper-beech-coloured hair.’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘That’s what always happens. Think of the men you know who’ve got dyed hair. Why is that while women’s hair colouring can range through every subtone of the natural palette – not to mention the unnatural one – men’s dyed hair always ends up the colour of copper beech?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Trevor shook his head, apparently unwilling to pursue this interesting philosophical question. He took a long swallow from his pint, and looked dolefully around the bar. ‘Alcohol speeds things up,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry? You’ve lost me.’

  ‘What I was talking about earlier. We all need things that speed time up. Alcohol serves that purpose. Life’s being a real drag, you can’t believe how slowly the minute hand’s moving ... then you have a few drinks, and – bang – that’s a whole evening disappeared. Five hours have gone without you noticing them.’

  ‘Are you saying that’s a good thing, Trevor?’

  ‘Too bloody right I am. Think of the alternative.’

  ‘Which is ...?’

  ‘Every minute has taken a full bloody minute to go by. Sixty bloody seconds every time. Not even a fifty-nine second minute. You have to go the distance on every bloody one of them.’

  ‘Why is that so terrible?’