Charles arrived at the Labour Exchange and entered door C. He took up position in the queue under D.
Well I can imagine it today, ‘Yes Mr Donald there is some back money owing to you. Would you sign here for £43.68p?’ I’d smile politely, ‘Oh yes thank you I had been beginning to wonder if it would ever come through. Thank you. Good day.’ Then I’d creep out and run like the clappers before they discovered their error. God love us, what’s this? What’s this noise? Can’t be somebody farting in a Labour Exchange. Bloody Irish. Don’t understand them at all. Think they delight in embarrassing the English. Everyone kids on they didn’t hear it. Surely they can smell it?
Charles stepped out of the queue and tapped the fellow on the shoulder. ‘Hoy Mick. That’s one helluva smell to make in a public place you know.’
‘Ah bejasus,’ sighed the Irishman, ‘it’s that bloody Guinness Jock. Sure I can’t help it at all.’
‘Terrible stuff for the guts right enough,’ said Charles.
‘Ah but it’s better than that English water they sell here. Bitter?’ he shook his head, ‘It’s a penance to drink it Jock.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Charles. ‘You been waiting long?’
‘Not at all,’ he shook his head again and spat on the floor. ‘Want a roll?’
‘You’re kidding me Mick?’
‘Aw what you going on about? Here,’ he took out his pouch and handed it to Charles. ‘I’ve plenty here and I’ll be getting a few quid this morning. Help yourself Jock.’
Charles accepted and rolled himself a smoke.
‘Been over long, man,’ he asked.
‘Too long Jock,’ he gave a short laugh, ‘Still skint.’
He struck a match on the floor and they lit their cigarettes.
‘Aye if I’d been buying that Guinness in shares instead of pints I’d be worth a fortune, and that’s a fact. The hell with it.’
‘You’re next Mick,’ said Charles.
The Irishman went to the counter and received the signing-on card from the young girl. He signed on and was handed his pay slip then he walked over to the cashier where he received his money and vanished.
Charles followed Mick to the first counter and to his surprise received a pay slip. Normally he got a BI form for the NAB. He asked the girl whether he would still have to visit the Social Security Office.
The girl smiled, ‘Not this week anyway Mr Donald.’
Charles strode across to the money counter and stole a quick look at the pay slip. Good God. He looked again.
‘God love us,’ he said loudly.
£23.82p. Jesus. Oh you good thing. Nearly twenty-four quid. Man man that’s almost eighteen back money. What can one say God? Mere words are useless.
He passed the pay slip under the grill to the older lady who dispensed the benefit. She passed him the money after he had signed again.
‘My sincere thanks madam,’ he said.
The cashier smiled, ‘That makes a change.’
‘You have a wonderful smile,’ continued Charles folding the wad. ‘I shall certainly call back here again. Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ the cashier watched him back off to the exit.
Charles closed the door. Yes maybe chances there if I followed it through. Maybe she just pities me though, with that smile? Impossible.
He walked up Pentonville Road and decided to go for a pint rather than a breakfast. Ten past eleven. Not too early.
‘Pint of bitter and eh. Give me,’ Charles stared at the miserable gantry, ‘just give me one of your good whiskies eh?’
The ancient barman peered at him for a moment then bent down behind the bar to produce a dusty bottle of Dimple Haig.
‘How’s this eh?’
‘Aye that’s fine,’ replied Charles. ‘How much is it?’
‘Seven bob,’ the barman muttered rubbing his ear thoughtfully.
‘Give me twenty Players too and that’s that.’
The barman passed over the cigarettes and grabbed the pound note mumbling to himself. Very friendly old bastard that. Must hate Scotsmen or something. The old man brought back the change and moved around the counter tidying up.
‘Hoy!’ called Charles after a time. ‘Any grub?’
‘What’s that?’ cried the barman left hand at his ear.
‘Food! Have you any food?’
‘What d’you want eh?’
‘Depends. What have you got?’
‘Don’t know,’ he thought for a moment, ‘Potato crisps?’
‘No chance,’ replied Charles. ‘Is that it?’
‘Shepherd’s pie? The wife makes it,’ he added smiling strangely.
Wonder why he’s smiling like that. Poisoned or something?
‘Homemade eh?’ asked Charles, ‘yeah I’ll have some of that.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes now for heaven’s sake,’ he shook his head.
‘Okay okay, just take a seat and I’ll go tell her eh?’ He shuffled off. As he passed through the partition he glanced back at Charles who gave him a wave.
Kind of quiet this place. Wonder when it gets busy. Strange I’m the only customer in at eleven thirty on a Thursday morning.
The ancient barman returned.
‘’Bout ten minutes eh.’
Charles nodded and he resumed wiping some glasses. Charles moved to a table near the window. He lit a cigarette.
Man man who would of thought of me getting back money like that. Brilliant. Let me see. 11.35 a.m. By rights I should still be sitting in the second interview queue at the NAB. The fat woman’s kids would be rolling on the floor and she’d be reading the Evening Standard dog section. Yes I’ll be missed. They’ll think I’ve gone to Scotland. Or maybe been lifted by the busies. Won’t have to go back there for a while. Perhaps just as well. I could have ended up in trouble if that sarcastic civil servant bastard had persisted in aggravating me. I would have had to hit him. No choice.
A huge woman appeared from behind the partition holding a plateful of steaming shepherd’s pie.
‘One shepherd’s pie,’ she cried.
Her chins trembled and her breasts rested on her knees as she bent to plonk the full plate down in front of Charles’ table.
‘This looks wonderful,’ said he sniffing the meal. He smiled up at her, ‘Madam you’ve excelled yourself. How much do you ask for this delicious fare?’
‘14p.’ She pointed to her husband. ‘He’ll give you the condiments. Just shout, he’s deaf occasionally.’
‘Many thanks,’ said Charles placing 20p on her tray. ‘Please have a drink on me.’
‘Ta son,’ she said as she toddled off to the kitchen.
Charles ate quickly and thoroughly enjoyed the meal.
‘Hoy! Hoy!’ he called when he had finished.
The barman was standing elbows leaning on the counter, staring up at the blank television screen.
‘Hoy!’ shouted Charles again, walking to the bar.
‘Yeah? Yeah? What up eh?’
‘Another pint of bitter and have one yourself.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Jesus! What’s up here at all. Listen man. Get me a pint of bitter please and have one with me eh? How’s that eh?’ cried Charles.
‘Fine son, I’ll have a half. Nice weather eh?’ the old fellow pulled the drinks showing distinct signs of energy.
‘Pity about the Fulham eh? Still they’ll be back, the old Fulham eh? Yeah they’ll be back eh?’ He took a long swig of beer. Eyes closed, a slow stream trickled down his half-shaven chin winding its way round his Adam’s apple on down under his shirt collar.
‘Yeah poor old Chelsea,’ he said and finished the drink.
‘What about the old Jags though? Even worse than Fulham.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The Thistle man, the old Partick Thistle were relegated last season.’
‘Ah. Scotch team eh?’ he asked. ‘Don’t pay much heed.’
‘Yeah you’re right. Not much
good up there,’ said Charles.
‘Bloody Celtic and Rangers,’ the old fellow shook his head in disgust. ‘Get them in here sometimes and the bloody Irish. Mostly go up the Angel they do. Bloody trouble they cause eh?’
‘Give me another of those Dimples will you?’
‘Yeah,’ he smiled awkwardly. ‘Like them do you? Can’t say I do. Drop of gin now and then, yeah that’s about it.’
Charles returned to his chair with his fresh drinks and sat quietly for about five minutes. Then he looked up at the bar.
‘Hoy!’ he shouted.
The deaf barman had regained his former position beneath the television set. He gave no indication of having heard.
‘Hoy!’ bawled Charles.
The old fellow jumped and turned angrily.
‘What’s up then? What’s this Hoy all the time eh?’
‘Well you’re a bit deaf aren’t you?’
‘No need to bloody scream like that.’
‘All right. I’m going out for a paper. Keep your eye on my drinks will you?’ Charles got to his feet.
The barman muttered under his breath and began polishing some glasses.
Charles had to visit three newsagents before obtaining a copy of the Sporting Life. Nothing else could possibly do with all that back money lying about.
When he returned to the pub he noticed another customer sitting at a table opposite him in a corner. She was around ninety years old.
‘Morning,’ said Charles. ‘Good morning missus.’
The old lady sucked her gums and smiled across at him, then looked up at the barman.
‘Goshtorafokelch,’ she said.
The barman looked from her to Charles before replying.
‘Yeah I’ll say eh?’
Bejasus thank God I’ve a paper to read. Perhaps this is an old folk’s home in disguise.
‘Hoy what time is it?’ asked Charles when he had finished his drink.
The old fellow thought for a moment before answering.
‘Well. Must be after twelve I reckon eh?’
‘Think I’ll be going then,’ said Charles.
‘You please yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Going to another shop then are you eh?’
‘No it’s not that man, I’ve got to go home, get a bath and that,’ replied Charles. God love us why should I feel guilty about it? It’s not as if he welcomed me with open arms.
‘Will you be back then?’ asked the old fellow.
‘Well not today. Maybe tonight though, but if not definitely be back sometime.’
‘Ah they all say that. Who cares eh?’ he poured himself a gin. ‘Fancy another short son?’
‘What?’ screeched Charles.
‘Another short. Want a Dimple?’
‘Why eh,’ he looked over to the ancient lady for support. ‘Why I’d really like another. Yeah thanks.’
‘Bloody bottle’s been here for years,’ he poured a liberal glassful. ‘Glad to get rid of the stuff.’
He passed the drink to Charles and watched him drink some.
‘You really like it then eh?’ he asked.
‘It’s a nice whisky. Yeah I quite like it.’
The barman opened a bottle of Guinness.
‘Give that to her,’ he said pointing to the old woman in the corner.
‘Okay,’ Charles carried it over. ‘Here you are missus, the landlord sent it over for you.’
The old woman looked up and nodded her head with a smile.
‘Patsorpooter,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ replied Charles smiling, ‘yeah!’
He returned to the bar and downed his remaining whisky.
‘Well I’ll be off then and I’ll be in again don’t worry about that.’
‘Hum,’ muttered the barman polishing the counter. ‘Yeah we’ll see eh?’ He moved away to the other side of the bar.
‘Listen I’ll be back,’ cried Charles.
The old man was polishing glasses again and could not hear for the noise of the cloth rag.
‘I’ll see you later,’ shouted Charles hopelessly.
He collected his newspaper and cigarettes from the table and made for the door. Christ this is really terrible. Can’t understand what it’s all about. Perhaps! No. I haven’t a clue. Sooner I’m out of here the better. He stopped by the old lady with his hand on the door.
‘Cheerio missus I’ll be in next week sometime. Okay?’
She wiped a speck of foam from the tip of her nose.
‘Deaf!’ She cried, ‘Deaf’ and burst into laughter.
Charles had a quick look around but the aged barman had disappeared. He left quickly.
The Best Man Advises
John returned with the drinks and carefully placed them on the table. ‘Stop drinking the hard stuff?’ He pushed a pint of heavy beer across.
‘More or less,’ Mick paused. ‘Like a half now and then, if somebody else’s doing the buying.’ He shrugged and held up his right hand, thumb between the first two fingers. ‘Got me like that man!’
‘Bad as that?’
‘Just about.’ He frowned. ‘Matter of fact I prefer her to hold the money. I’d do it in before Saturday mornings, on my own.’ He smiled. ‘Anyway you’re worse than me so stop smirking.’
‘Not me man,’ he sat back comfortably. ‘Well under control. Finished with it! No I mean it man, don’t laugh. I’m telling you. Occasional game of cards and that’s that.’
‘Well good luck if it’s true.’
‘You’re better drinking it, I suppose.’
‘Yeah.’ Mick stared thoughtfully at his glass.
‘What’s the forehead creasing for? Not agree?’
‘Well I mean all the same really man. Piss it up against a wall or get beat in a photo! Same difference.’
‘At least you get a drink for it!’
‘Get a thrill if you gamble it.’ He changed the subject. ‘Anyway so you’re still getting married?’
‘Aye – even fixed up the honeymoon.’
‘Where?’
‘Not telling you, you bastard!’
Mick laughed aloud. ‘Bet you it’s Rothesay.’
‘Rothesay my knickers!’
‘Well why don’t you tell me?’
‘Bad luck! She says it’s bad luck.’
‘Jesus Christ I’m the best man.’
‘Ach she’s a bit superstitious Mick – tea leaves and that.’
‘Once they go to those games man you’ve got to watch it. Be holding spiritual parties behind your back whenever you’re out for a pint.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Telling you man that’s the way it gets them.’
‘Her maw’s a bit of a seance.’
‘What?’
‘A medium I mean, her maw – bit of a medium.’
‘What? Christ!’
‘Ach she’s okay Mick, apart from that sort of stuff she’s not a bad woman. Likes me too I think.’
‘Ah well, more than that old bag of Betty’s, Christ you want to see her? Or you don’t want to see her! I never see her – dive out to the boozer whenever she shows up.’
‘Posh isn’t she?’
‘Yeah from Bearsden. Thinks I abducted her daughter.’ Mick shook his head. ‘No wonder her man dropped dead.’
‘Export?’ asked John, rising with his empty glass. Mick nodded. He returned with two whiskies along with the beer.
‘Halfs! Can you afford it?’
‘Aye! Loaded!’ John sat down. ‘I’ve got a few quid. For the reception and the stag night and that.’ He raised the whisky glass to make a toast. ‘Well probably the last drink I’ll have with you as a single man.’
‘Aye. Good luck!’ They drank about half the whisky; then Mick winked. ‘Fancy getting blotto man? I mean really steamboats, fancy?’
‘Suits me,’ John grinned. ‘What about you though?’
‘I’m okay!’ he shrugged. ‘Got about four quid. Plenty!’
‘Don’t mean that.’
�
��What do you mean? Betty? You’re jesting! She accepted all that years ago. Happy to see me bevied once in a while – makes her feel safe.’
‘Well then Michael, long time since we got drunk together.’
‘Probably the last . . .’
‘Don’t be so optimistic. Jesus Christ!’
‘Well, I thought you’d have more sense John, I really did. I mean you could’ve taken me as an example.’ He downed the remaining whisky and held up the empty tumbler. ‘First half for three months!’
John smiled. ‘Yeah, suppose I’ll have to quiet down to a certain extent – screw the head with the money and that.’ He paused. ‘Betty looks after your money, I know that but you’d only punt it anyway so it’s in your favour.’
‘I know,’ agreed Mick. ‘I don’t have any grumbles about finance. No, not at all. Freedom! I mean whenever you get bored you’re off – London or someplace – that’ll have to stop. You like to buy clothes – that’ll have to stop.’
‘Yeah,’ he nodded. ‘I know all that’s got to stop to a certain extent . . .’
‘Certain extent!’ echoed Mick. ‘What’s this certain extent? Listen man I haven’t bought a pair of socks for six months . . .’
‘You always were a smelly bastard.’
‘I’m dead serious John. Look . . .’ he fingered the lapels of his jacket, ‘. . . I bought this eighteen months ago – only one I’ve got apart from that glen-checked effort with the fifteen-inch bottoms. Can’t even pawn it man it’s pathetic.’ He stared mournfully into his empty whisky glass.
‘Surely it’s not that bad?’
‘Whit!’ shrieked Mick, causing several heads to look around. They burst out laughing. Mick had to loosen his tie and open the top button of his shirt. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘same again?’
‘Now what about the stag night?’ John said when his companion returned.
‘Honestly man can’t make it. Would if I could.’
‘Okay then it’s finished.’
They remained drinking and reminiscing until the first bell rang at 9.50 p.m.
John said, ‘Listen Mick what you fancy doing now, I mean . . .’ he shrugged, ‘. . . we’re not really steamboats are we?’
‘No, you want to go for a meal or something?’
‘Well let’s get a carry-out first.’
‘Aye!’
‘I’ll get it and we can settle after,’ John said.
An Old Pub Near the Angel Page 6
