An Old Pub Near the Angel

by Kelman, James

  A morning paper could be the only other thing I desired at that moment. When we finished the meal she gathered up the plates and I sat back with the book. She reappeared five minutes later with her bag and tools.

  ‘Thanks an awful lot missus. You saved my life there, you really did.’

  ‘Time you got married,’ she commented, leaving the room.

  A great woman. Truly great.

  I returned to my book aware of the rain still battering down outside. It was pathetic. A typically dismal day before pay day. The only possible way to be happy on a day such as this would be to have your insurance cards, two weeks’ wages plus holiday money and a ticket to London.

  I could not concentrate on my book. Would it be possible to nip the landlady? I mean Christ, I paid two weeks in advance and there’s a tenner deposit on top of that. Surely one miserable pound would be forthcoming! Eh?

  An hour had passed before I had plucked up the necessary courage to descend to her office. If she refused I could threaten her. Tell her I’d shop her to the busies for allowing brass nails on the premises. And she must be getting something for it! No doubt about that.

  Yes I would see her. First I had to go for a shit, the combination of egg and beans was deadly. I left the flat and as I descended the flight of stairs leading to the toilet the door opened and one of the aforementioned ladies came out. She smiled demurely, brushing by me in a loose floral dressing gown. She smelled good.

  ‘Good morning,’ I called after her.

  Prospects there if I ever won a few quid on the horses.

  As I sat with my trousers around my ankles, hunched over reading an ancient copy of the People’s Friend which had been placed on the newly washed linoleum, I noticed a £1 note lying near the washhand basin. I continued reading aware of the blood pounding through my temples then I closed my eyes and opened them slowly. Good God Almighty it still lay there with the green lady winking up at me. Struck constipated I pulled up my trousers and pounced upon it. I silently half opened the door peering around. No one! I stole up the stairs and tiptoed into my flat.

  ‘Hullo there! Hullo you good thing.’ I burst out laughing and threw myself on the bed holding the pound note in the air. Guilt! Guilt pangs? That girl’s hard-earned bread. Who are you kidding man, handful for a short time? Jesting! Might not even be hers. Could be the cleaner’s? Christ it gets worse. No! Must be the girl’s. Girl? Must be near thirty man. Anyway.

  I lay back staring at the ceiling. When she finds out she’ll know it’s me. Suss that out right away. Well, well, well. Some thief. Some bloody thief right enough.

  I stood up and decided to return it immediately. Anonymously would be best. I crept along the corridor and quietly inserted it in her letter box then I returned to the lavatory and resumed where I had left off.

  About half an hour later, back in my flat, I had managed to get involved in the book when there came a knock on the door. I opened.

  ‘Hullo,’ she was still wearing the floral dressing gown. ‘Did you find this?’ she asked, holding the pound note out.

  I nodded and blushed.

  ‘Here,’ she smiled handing me a ten bob piece, ‘thanks a lot.’

  ‘No!’ I shouted, ‘No thanks, that’s all right,’ mumbling now.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m OK. Yes thanks.’ My neck was beginning to ache with the amount of nodding my head was doing.

  ‘Well if you’re sure,’ she smiled seriously. ‘Thanks very much.’

  I closed the door still nodding my red head. What a stupid bastard. I lay back on the bed utterly spent. Ten bob. Not even a fag. I jumped to my feet, opened the door and marched down the corridor. I knocked loudly on her door. It opened almost immediately.

  ‘Have you a cigarette to spare,’ I faltered then added lamely, ‘Don’t have any. None at all.’

  She smiled, ‘You should have said. Come in.’

  I entered. A man stood by the far window watching quietly. An older woman sat on the settee with a drink in one hand.

  ‘What’s your name?’ the girl asked.

  ‘Jimmy.’ I nodded, ‘Jimmy.’

  She turned and introduced me. The man smiled pleasantly remaining silent, he was over six feet tall but kind of thin.

  ‘Jimmy found the pound,’ she looked at me quite proudly, ‘I’m Joan; Alice, pour him a sherry.’

  I accepted the drink to be sociable and Joan gave me a Rothman King Size, motioning me to take a seat on the long settee.

  ‘Well girls,’ the tall man crossed the room, ‘that’s settled then?’

  Joan shrugged, ‘If you like.’

  Alice gestured from the settee with her sherry glass, muttering to herself. Frowning, he made as if to say something, changed his mind and left.

  The door had barely closed when Alice snorted loudly, ‘Good bloody riddance!’ I half expected him to come back. He must have heard her. ‘I don’t know Joanie,’ Alice continued, ‘I really don’t. He expects too much. Far too much.’ She looked across at me. ‘Too bloody much. So he does.’ I sipped the sherry. Never seen the bloke before and yet he had to be the pimp. ‘Anyway,’ Alice stood up and drained her glass, ‘I’m off to do some shopping.’ Joan yawned as she lifted the bottle of sherry.

  ‘OK, Alice,’ she said, leaning over and topping up my glass.

  ‘Cheerio,’ I said.

  ‘Bye lad,’ replied Alice staring at me.

  The door closed behind her and I sat back enjoying the drink and smoke.

  ‘Is she at it too?’ I asked.

  Joan nodded with big eyes.

  ‘Is she not a bit old?’ Good God what a ridiculous question.

  ‘Too old for what?’ she smiled at me, ‘Alice isn’t even forty.’

  ‘She should be settled down by now,’ I said by way of an explanation.

  ‘She was married. Three kids as well. She left them all about two years ago,’ Joan walked to the sink. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ I answered, ‘Where’d you meet her?’

  Joan busied around the oven for two or three minutes and I was beginning to think she had not heard. Then she turned mock dramatically.

  ‘She’s my auntie.’

  ‘Your auntie?’

  She burst into laughter at the expression on my face.

  ‘Do you want to hear a sob story?’

  I held out my glass for a refill. ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘Just as well, don’t know any anyway.’ Joan came over and sat facing me. I thought she had been wearing a bra earlier. Must have been mistaken.

  ‘He’s gay.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Him!’ she pointed to the door. ‘He’s bent.’

  ‘Oh!’ I was surprised. ‘Are you sure?’

  She looked at me like I was daft or something.

  ‘Did you not notice?’

  ‘Well it crossed my mind.’

  ‘Bloody liar.’ She was laughing at me again.

  ‘Well sometimes it’s difficult to tell.’

  ‘That’s probably why he rushed away,’ she continued.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Jealous. That’s why.’

  ‘Ha ha ha,’ I said finishing the drink to cover my blushes.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘Young fellow like you.’

  ‘Good stuff this,’ I waved to the bottle playing for time.

  ‘Home brew,’ she poured me another. ‘Never mind that label, it’s very potent stuff.’

  ‘Aphrodisiac qualities?’ I laughed half heartedly. ‘I mean has it? Eh?’

  ‘Alice made it so it’s very possible,’ she said pouring herself one.

  ‘Randy old bugger she is. You want to watch her too.’

  The kettle shrilled and she walked over to the cooker.

  ‘Still want some coffee?’

  ‘No, not for me, thanks,’ I replied.

  Standing with her back to me for a few moments, she switched off the gas, absentmindedly it seemed.

  ‘Nice of
you to return that pound. Don’t suppose you’ve got any money either.’

  ‘Well it’s pay day tomorrow,’ I explained.

  Old Alice’s brew was beginning to take a hold of me.

  Wonder what she put in it? I poured myself another.

  ‘Like it?’ asked Joan sitting back down on the settee.

  I nodded and passed her one of her cigarettes, taking one myself. My hand was shaking uncontrollably as I reached across to give her a light.

  ‘All right?’ she asked behind those big, big eyes.

  ‘Whoo I’m okay. Powerful stuff that stuff.’

  My hand was not shaking because of the bloody drink. No, no, no! Her dressing gown had opened almost down to her waist as she leaned forward to light up. What a pair of tits she had on her!

  ‘You have a fine pair of, eh! breasts there, Joan. You really have.’

  ‘Thanks but they are a bit small.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Whoo they’re perfect.’

  She smiled gracefully.

  I placed my glass carefully on the carpet and as I leaned across to her, knocked it over.

  ‘Don’t mind it,’ said Joan, ‘just leave it lying.’

  Her gown lay precariously round her shoulders, she jerked forward slightly and it fell on to the cushions behind her.

  I placed a forefinger on each of her nipples feeling remarkably fine for a Wednesday.

  Dinner for Two

  By the time he had found his front door key, Mr Joranski the landlord approached carrying a bag of groceries.

  ‘Well Charles,’ he asked, ‘get paid?’

  ‘Yes John, I’ll be able to give you three weeks.’

  ‘What?’ Mr Joranski was astonished.

  ‘They gave me a tenner for some reason.’

  ‘Very nice. Very nice. You want some food?’

  Charles nodded, ‘Yes. Great, I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Mr Joranski departed to the basement and Charles climbed the steep stairs leading to his room on the third floor. He changed into his best trousers and jumper and pulled on his newly purchased black socks.

  By the time he had reached the basement the landlord had the table set and the meal almost ready.

  The basement consisted of a communal sitting room with a television, an old decrepit couch and odd chairs dotted around the walls. One enormous peculiar table lay propped against one wall. Everything from poker games to shove halfpenny took place on this table. If there were unexpected guests or perhaps a big game on at Wembley every bed and chair in the house would be occupied and the landlord would throw a blanket on his table and sleep there himself. He had been a soldier. Rumour had it he had carried this table all the way from Warsaw through two concentration camps, walked across Europe, come by rowing boat to Aberdeen and from there hitchhiked his way to King’s Cross. No one could understand how he had managed to get it down the basement stairs and through the narrow sitting-room door.

  ‘Sure you can afford it?’ he asked as Charles gave him nine singles. ‘Nine quid from ten leaves one you know?’

  ‘Take it quickly man.’

  ‘Okay.’ Mr Joranski smiled, ‘You want to borrow anything later just come down. Not too much though or we’re back to the beginning again, all right?’

  ‘Bring on the grub John,’ said Charles.

  ‘Yes, yes bring on the grub. I have good sausage Polish!’ He shook his head. ‘German no good, Hungarian not too bad. Polish?’ he smacked his lips. ‘Mmmm. Here cut some bread.’

  Charles sliced through the thick crusty loaf.

  ‘Any butter?’ he asked.

  ‘Butter?’ echoed John, ‘Of course butter. What do you think?’

  He pulled a packet from his provision bag. The kettle whistled from the kitchen. John rose.

  ‘I go make some tea.’

  Charles buttered a few thick slices of bread and cut some chunks of blue cheese. The landlord returned in a matter of moments with two odd mugs of tea.

  ‘I’m starving John,’ said Charles.

  ‘You should eat more,’ he poured some condensed milk into the mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’ he inquired.

  ‘No! Good God!’ Charles shook his head. ‘It’ll taste like tablet.

  Christ knows how you’ve a tooth left in your head.’

  ‘Good for you,’ replied John. ‘Cream and sugar. Kill the taste of this lousy tea. Bloody English tea.’ He snorted contemptuously, ‘Ugh, lousy lousy.’

  ‘British tea,’ corrected Charles out of habit. ‘Why d’you buy the stuff then?’

  ‘Who knows?’ The landlord bit off a chunk of bread and munched happily.

  ‘John,’ said Charles, ‘this is the finest sausage I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Back home,’ replied John, mouth filled with salami, ‘back home this is only average.’ He drank some tea. ‘Charles you should go to my country sometime. Food!’ his eyes widened. ‘Ha! In England you oil the machine that right?’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full man. You remind me of old Jackson up the stair,’ said Charles.

  ‘He pay me every Wednesday. Every Wednesday never misses.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with his eating habits? Every time I talk to him when we’re eating I can’t see my tea for his dinner floating around in my cup.’

  ‘Ah plenty rent no manners,’ the landlord shrugged his shoulders, ‘How bad?’

  ‘You are all business John, all business,’ Charles shook his head slowly.

  ‘All business!’ cried the landlord. ‘All business? Eat my sausage and pay me nothing.’ Joranski jumped to his feet. ‘You shout business to me!’

  ‘Take it easy man.’

  ‘Easy? If I’m business you’d be in Euston Station, dossing with dossers. Come on get more tea Scotchman.’

  ‘Get it yourself you immigrant bastard,’ answered Charles in anger.

  ‘Immigrant bastard?’ repeated John. ‘Get the tea! Get a job! Comb your hair and get it cut and a bath. Come on get some rent money for me,’ he bellowed pounding his chest with a slice of bread.

  ‘Just gave you nine quid man. What you on about?’

  ‘Fifteen I want. Five weeks at three is fifteen plus two and six for this food.’ John thumped his table and sat down. ‘You think I’m daft Scotchman. You come and tap me for the money by Sunday morning I know.’

  ‘You just told me to ask if I needed it for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he whacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Right Scotchman I get the tea.’ He stood up again.

  ‘That’s okay John,’ Charles got to his feet, ‘I’ll go for it.’

  ‘Sit!’ bawled the landlord, brandishing the bread knife. ‘I cut your bloody head off.’

  ‘Okay you get the bloody tea then,’ Charles sat down.

  ‘Lazy lazy dossing Scotch bastard. Come on why don’t you go home?’

  ‘This is my home, Joranski. Thought you were getting the tea Daddy?’

  The landlord snorted, ‘My son would not be like you.’

  He went through to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.

  ‘No,’ he continued, ‘I throw him out if he is like you.’

  Charles said nothing.

  ‘Come on. Take some more sausage. Plenty cheese.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Charles cut a slice and passed it to John.

  The landlord bit a chunk and grinned, ‘Old Jackson won’t eat sausage. I offer him many times but he says no. Garlic.’

  ‘Yeah garlic,’ agreed Charles, ‘course he’s English.’

  ‘Yeah,’ nodded John, ‘he’s English.’

  Both men finished and began clearing the table.

  ‘Well?’ asked Mr Joranski, ‘You going to buy me some beer now?’

  ‘Okay! With pleasure. Come.’

  An old pub near the Angel

  Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shav
e today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks today. Impossibility. People notice smells although they say nothing.

  Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks’ rent? He has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. One of his longest-serving tenants. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.

  Still he did take me for a meal last night. Collapsed if he hadn’t. Imagine that bloody hotel porter knocking me back. Where’s your uniform? Are you a washer up? Those people depress me. What’s the difference, one meal more or less? I wonder what it is with them? Old John though – what can I say – after the bollicking he gives me for not trying to get a job and some bread together, who expects him to come back thirty minutes later saying, ‘Okay you Scotch dosser. Come and eat,’ what could I say apart from, ‘Fancy a pint first John?’ Yes he has too many good points. Suppose I could give him a week’s money. Depends on what they give me though. Anyway.

  Charles left the house and made his way towards the Labour Exchange up near Pentonville Road. It was a twenty-five minute walk but one Charles did not mind at all as he normally received six and a half from the NAB for his trouble afterwards.

  Yes spring is definitely around the corner man. Look at that briefcase with the sports jacket and cavalry twill slacks. Already? Very daring. Must be a traveller. Best part of the day this – seeing all the workers – office and site and the new middle-class tradesmen all going about their business. It pleases me.

  Can’t say I’m in the mood for a long wait in the NAB afterwards. Jesus Christ I forgot a book. Man man what do I do now? Borrow newspapers? Stare at people’s necks and make goo goos at their children? Good God! The money will be well earned today.

  Charles stopped outside the Easy Eats Cafe and breathed in deeply. This fellow must be the best cook in London without any doubt at all. My my my. Every time I pass this place it’s the same, smells like bacon and eggs and succulent sausages with toast and tea. Never mind never mind soon be there.