An Old Pub Near the Angel

by Kelman, James

  Pete arrived home after five and boiled some freshly picked potatoes which he had with a frozen minute steak and the remaining half pint of milk. Some holidaymakers were eating dinner and a few were recuperating in the sun, dozing to Radio 1. Pete ate quickly then carried the dirty utensils to the washroom.

  ‘Hullo there.’

  Pete stopped, seeing Dave approach.

  ‘Hullo Dave how are you doing?’

  ‘Okay. How was work?’

  ‘Too hot,’ Pete answered, ‘far too hot man.’

  ‘What are you doing now? I mean after, where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll be off for a few pints.’

  ‘To St Helier?’

  ‘No. Just down to the cross.’

  ‘The hotel?’

  ‘Yeah. The Queen’s. Fancy coming along?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dave looked pleased, ‘how long will you be?’

  ‘As soon as I do this lot,’ he looked at the utensils. ‘Ten minutes.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll go and get changed.’ Dave turned and walked off.

  About twenty minutes later they met at the gate entrance to the campsite. Pete grinned to himself when Dave appeared wearing a suit and a shirt and tie.

  ‘Kind of formal man,’ he said. ‘The locals will take you for a tourist.’

  ‘Well it’s a hotel,’ he hesitated. ‘Oh who cares. I am a tourist anyway.’

  Pete laughed, ‘I doubt if Patrick’ll even talk to you.’

  ‘The old Irishman?’ asked Dave.

  Pete nodded. ‘Yes. The best domino man on the Channel Islands.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dave glanced sideways at him.

  The Queen’s Hotel stood at the crossroads just under a two-mile walk from the campsite. It had a bar, a lounge and a fair-sized restaurant all of which opened seven days a week to resident and non-resident alike. The lounge was patronized by holidaymakers and wealthy retired couples in contrast to the large bar where the local farmworkers congregated. They were in the main Bretons and tended to drink in one large group by the bar. A few tourist husbands on the run from television lounges would end up here where they could have a quiet pint and perhaps a game of darts or dominoes.

  When Pete and Dave entered the bar the Irishman was sitting near the group of Frenchmen, chatting to an old crony who puffed on a gray clay pipe. Pete asked Dave what he wanted to drink.

  ‘Pint of bitter and a pint of Guinness, Sam,’ called Pete to the barman.

  He turned to Dave.

  ‘Notice how he never acknowledged it?’

  Dave nodded.

  ‘That’s because I haven’t been in for two days. They think if you’re not here you must be in some other boozer spending the money.’

  ‘But you were,’ replied Dave grinning.

  ‘That’s not the point though.’ He shrugged, ‘What’s the difference?’

  They carried their drinks to a table not far from the jukebox. Dave played three records and when he run on Pete said, ‘What do you do for a living man?’

  ‘I go up to University at the beginning of September.’

  ‘Very good,’ replied Pete seriously. ‘What do you intend doing afterwards?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ he shrugged, ‘teach maybe. I don’t really know.’

  ‘Your parents want you to be a teacher?’

  ‘My mother does,’ he grinned wryly. ‘My father doesn’t care as long as I use my qualifications.’

  Pete finished his pint and Dave rose, downing the dregs of his.

  ‘Same again?’ he asked.

  Pete nodded and he walked to the bar to order. Pete sat back in his chair looking around the crowded room. He saw Patrick receiving a fresh pint at the bar. He waved and the old man strolled across the room.

  ‘Been in long?’

  ‘Half past four. I finished early.’ He gazed around the room, still standing holding his pint of Guinness. He smiled down at Pete and jerked his head.

  ‘Think we could get a game going boy. I’ll get the doms.’

  ‘By the way Patrick, there’s a young guy with me.’

  ‘Aye, I saw him.’

  ‘He’s camping with his parents up at the site.’

  ‘Is he now?’

  ‘Yeah, he’s okay.’

  Patrick nodded and left for the bar as Dave returned with his round.

  ‘Do you play dominoes?’ asked Pete.

  ‘No, not really. Not since I was a kid.’

  ‘Well listen,’ he leaned across, ‘me and old Patrick usually get a game going.’

  Dave nodded with the glimmer of a smile.

  ‘Partners you know? Just for pints,’ he grinned, ‘with the tourists.’

  ‘I see,’ Dave grinned back, ‘you mean you con them.’

  ‘Well we don’t really con them man, I mean they enjoy the game and once or twice we have been known to pay for an evening.’

  ‘Not very often though.’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘In four years.’ Dave laughed, ‘I’ll enjoy watching.’

  ‘Right,’ said Pete.

  Patrick came back with the domino box and board. Pete spread the pieces face down and shuffled.

  ‘Quick game of knockout eh? Miserable shillings OK?’

  ‘Does he know the game well enough?’ Patrick gestured vaguely towards Dave.

  ‘Enough to lose a couple of bob,’ Pete winked at Dave.

  ‘Looks like he’s going to the bloody dancing,’ grunted the Irishman.

  They settled down to the game, playing steadily for half an hour before one man who had been spectating for two games asked if he could have a hand. Pete said yes and the fellow sat in. He was a Newcastle man and said his name was John and his mate who liked a game would be in in ten minutes. His mate duly arrived and was invited in.

  ‘If you don’t mind I’ll just watch,’ said Dave moving to another seat.

  Old Patrick shrugged, ‘Fancy partners?’

  ‘Aye,’ said John, ‘mates. Fancy it Bert? Me and you eh? The old firm.’

  ‘Aye good idea Johnnie.’ Bert turned to the other two, ‘Half pints a corner eh?’

  The two friends were on holiday with their wives and they were boarding together in a small hotel near St Martin.

  After a comment on the weather the dominoes were shuffled and the men lifted six apiece.

  ‘Heh, heh. Is this what starts the game off then?’ asked John laying the double six on the board.

  Pete smiled at him, Bert made no sign. Old Patrick farted loudly. The big game was under way.

  Dave watched the first few games but soon lost interest apart from when he had to go to the bar for the losers’ rounds. After a while the stakes were raised to pints then eventually to shorts. Patrick and Pete were winning consistently now and Dave was being pushed an occasional whisky from Pete.

  The bar was crowded now and a group of young men and women in yachting gear were standing by the counter drinking half pints of mild and trying to engage the French farmworkers in conversation. There were cries of ‘Oui’ now and then, and an occasional ‘Oo la la’ as one of the older Bretons slapped one of the young English women on the bum. Everyone was laughing and enjoying the fun.

  About thirty minutes before closing time, Bert stood up after another defeat and sniffed.

  ‘Think I’ll turn in now. What about you John eh? Coming?’

  ‘Aye,’ replied John rising to his feet, ‘long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay lads, good game,’ said Pete.

  ‘Not a bad game eh?’ John asked Patrick.

  ‘Played worse,’ agreed the old Irishman.

  ‘Aye!’ Bert smiled at last, ‘aye you’re too hot for us, lads. Come on mate,’ he emphasized the last word as he led his friend from the bar.

  ‘He wasn’t a bad player,’ said Pete.

  ‘Aye,’ Patrick nodded. ‘Don’t know where he found his friend though.’

  Dave yawned, ‘What time do they close?’

  ‘About ten past elev
en,’ replied Pete. ‘Think I’ve had enough myself. What about you Patrick?’

  ‘Think I’ll stay on for a few minutes.’

  Dave stood up unsteadily holding on to the table.

  ‘Good night.’ Patrick knocked his pipe out and began cutting from a block of moist black tobacco. ‘Better take the boy home Pete,’ he grunted out the corner of his mouth.

  Pete nodded and steadied Dave as they walked to the exit.

  The path leading between the fields from the cross to the camp site had no lighting of any kind and when Pete had first come to the island courage had to be taken to walk home alone. Now being accustomed to the country he never gave the darkness a second thought.

  Shortly after leaving the hotel Dave staggered up to a tree where he spewed and retched for a while. Pete was rather worried about any possible reaction from his parents. Bad examples, corrupting influences, etc. Still Dave was old enough to take care of himself.

  ‘Man you look really awful,’ said Pete sympathetically.

  ‘Oh God!’ Dave closed his eyes, both hands supported by the tree, he shuddered fitfully.

  Later Pete asked him if he was able to continue the walk home.

  ‘Think so,’ mumbled Dave. ‘Feel bit better.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Pete pulling out a packet of cigarettes, ‘want a fag?’

  ‘No, no,’ groaned Dave shaking his head violently.

  ‘Okay, okay, sorry,’ said Pete quickly, adding, ‘come on, we better start or we’ll be here all night.’

  He strode on and Dave lurched steadfastly after him. Ten minutes had passed before Pete stopped. He said, ‘Have to have a piss. You carry on man and I’ll catch you up.’

  Dave nodded silently and staggered on up the track disappearing into the night.

  Pete finished and lighted a cigarette feeling surprisingly well. Perhaps watching Dave had helped sober him up. Poor bastard. He hitched up his jeans and set off after him walking quickly. Probably find him lying in a ditch somewhere, good suit and all.

  ‘Ah! Aaah.’

  A terrible cry rent the still night from a hundred yards ahead.

  ‘Ah God! Aaa.’

  Pete stopped in his tracks. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said loudly.

  He heard the sound of running footsteps increasing in volume then Dave burst into view sprinting madly.

  ‘Up there,’ he gasped. ‘Up there in the middle of the road.’

  Pete looked and could see nothing. Dave tugged his arm.

  ‘Come on,’ he cried, ‘come on.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ shouted Pete.

  But too late. Dave was away and practically out of sight on his way back to the hotel.

  As Pete stood wondering what to do old Patrick approached hurriedly.

  ‘Hoy Pete, what’s up with the kid? Nearly knocked me over the bloody fool.’

  ‘God knows Patrick. Something in the middle of the road.’

  ‘Aye he said something like that. Come on. Let’s find out.’

  They set off walking side by side in case of emergencies, although neither admitted as much. Pete was whistling uneasily while Patrick’s pipe-stem seemed to be about to snap due to the pressure exerted on it by his false teeth.

  As they turned a bend in the path they could vaguely make out a dark shape filling the pathway.

  ‘Jesus!’ Pete moved one pace forward and laughed with relief.

  ‘A cow!’ he said, ‘It’s a bloody cow.’

  ‘A bloody old cow,’ answered Patrick in disgust. ‘Just what you’d expect. You better go and find that boy.’

  ‘What about you? You not coming?’

  ‘Me?’ the old man snorted, ‘see you tomorrow boy.’

  ‘You rotten old bastard,’ said Pete grinning.

  ‘Bloody dancing he should’ve been, that’s what. Eh? Bloody dancing.’

  Patrick laughed and lighted his pipe then, giving a wave, ambled on home.

  Pete watched him go then turned and set off to discover whether Dave had reached St Helier.

  Wednesday

  ‘Jimmy! Jimmy! Come on, it’s half past.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  Billy was leaning over me shaking my shoulder. ‘Half past five man come on.’

  ‘I’m not going.’ I closed my eyes as I realised today was Wednesday. Day before pay day. We had no money. No food. No cigarettes. Nothing at all. ‘I’m not going man.’

  ‘You’re daft you bastard.’ Billy looked disgusted. ‘What’s the point in staying here? There’s no grub. Nothing. Might get a tap in work.’

  I opened my eyes. ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘So you’re not going?’ He put on his jacket.

  ‘No sir. No sirree. Tell old Dick. Oh tell him anything at all.’

  Billy opened the door and looked around. ‘You tell him tomorrow.’

  ‘OK.’ I pulled the blankets up to my chin. ‘Christ it’s really terrible in here. So cosy and warm. Oh it’s really bad. I wish I could go to work. You’re lucky.’

  ‘Aye I know,’ he looked angry, ‘I’m getting a new place Jimmy, this is hopeless.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I mumbled sleepily.

  The door slammed as I turned over.

  About 10.30 a.m. I awoke with a clear conscience and began searching for food. Billy and I had looked everywhere last night but unknown to him I had found an egg which I had secreted among the old ash in the fireplace. I looked elsewhere for something more but found nothing.

  I washed the egg before breaking the shell and emptying it into the frying pan. Then I realized I should have boiled it. Too late now. One fried egg for breakfast. Still there were three or four tea leaves left and enough dust to make at least one cup of tea. No milk though. I noticed the old empty tin of Carnation lying on top of the rubbish box. Yes! I could pour some boiling water into it and swirl it about. Enough for a cup. Things were looking better.

  I switched on the kettle and turned on the electric ring before returning to the room to make the bed and tidy up a bit. There was a chance of finding a dowt somewhere. Perhaps in the fireplace? Billy had looked there last night though. Not much hope. I searched around for a while before discovering the large butt of a Capstan under the carpet. That sneaky bastard! He must have tapped it from a lodger. Well, well, well. What a dirty bastard. I thought I smelled smoke this morning. What! Something up! The kettle had not whistled.

  I put the dowt behind my ear and walked through to the kitchen. The switch! Electricity! The slot! Jesus no shilling. No breakfast. Overcome with despair I sat down, close to tears. My mind was completely blank for some time. Then. Raw eggs! Very healthy. Yes and there was some Yorkshire relish to mix in.

  ‘Hullo there!’ I cried for joy and jumping to my feet ran through to the kitchen where I spooned the egg from the frying pan up into a cup. I took the sauce bottle down from the shelf and laid it on the sink, then drank some ice-cold water, straight from the tap. Ah, even Manchester water is so refreshing.

  I grabbed the bottle and shook the liquid into the cup. Closing my eyes I raised the cup to my lips and drank half. Immediately I spluttered and coughed and spewed into the sink. Groaning I bent my head down between my knees realising what I had done. I could still taste it. My God I had picked up the Fairy Liquid instead of the Yorkshire Relish. I straightened and turned on the tap to wash away the breakfast. Something attracted my attention. The ultimate piece of all the bad luck which had ever befallen me. The cigarette butt had fallen from my ear and was now soggily floating with the tide of green-coloured yolk towards the drain.

  I staggered into the room and collapsed onto the bed a raving maniac. Somehow I must have undressed and crawled under the blankets, as the next thing I knew, the door had opened and the landlady’s cleaner was staring down at me. She held a broom and shovel in one hand.

  ‘Sorry, thought you were at work. Always do in here Wednesdays.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ I sat up, ‘If you start in the kitchen I’ll get up.’

  ‘Y
ou don’t have to.’

  ‘No, I was about to get up anyway.’

  ‘All right then.’

  She walked through to the kitchen closing the door behind her.

  I dressed quickly, rather embarrassed as she had noticed my clothes strewn around the room and my underwear had not been changed for a fortnight although I doubt whether she had noticed that.

  ‘OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  The kitchen door opened and she peeped around, ‘Somebody been sick in here?’

  I nodded, ‘Bad stomach, that’s why I didn’t go in to work.’

  ‘Ah there’s a germ going the rounds.’ She returned to her duties.

  I picked up a book and sat down. I could not concentrate, my mind was on food and my orchestral stomach began tuning up. Ten minutes elapsed then on impulse I rose and opened the kitchen door.

  ‘Fancy some tea?’ I asked.

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll just go and wash first.’

  I retreated quickly to the communal bathroom hoping for a miracle. I sat meditating on what to say when I returned. In all I must have had about a dozen different replies ready for her possible questions.

  When I eventually got back to the flat I found the cleaner had left; however, her tools were still lying on the kitchen floor. God what could I say to her? All my answers sounded ridiculous. Suddenly the door opened and she entered carrying a shopping bag.

  ‘Here.’ She passed me a single shilling which I accepted silently and slid into the slot.

  ‘You remind me of my son and my man.’ She smiled faintly, ‘and my father and brothers.’

  I stood saying nothing.

  ‘You tidy up the room and I’ll make the tea,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  With some relief I watched her go into the kitchen. I set to making the bed again. My nose was going mad. Just as I had finished cleaning out the fireplace the door opened and she came through carrying a tray. There was a plate straining under a pile of buttered toast and another two, each containing three sausages, an egg, beans and a fried potato scone.

  ‘I’m hungry too,’ she said with the glimmer of a smile, placing the tray on the table. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring in the tea.’