by Paul Merton
“Well stone me, I see you’ve decked y’self out in fine new whistles to put the todd off the scent.” (Which in common parlance means more or less: “I see you’ve disguised yourself as a gentleman in order to confuse the detectives.”)
“Ah!” murmured Dutilleul. “You’ve recognised me!”
This troubled him and he decided to hasten his departure for Egypt. It was the afternoon of that very same day that he fell in love with a blonde beauty whom he bumped into twice in fifteen minutes on the Rue Lepic. Straight away he forgot his stamp collection and Egypt and the Pyramids. For her part, the blonde had looked at him with genuine interest. Nothing speaks more eloquently to the imagination of today’s young woman than plus fours and a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles. She will scent her big break, and dream of cocktails and nights in California. Unfortunately, Dutilleul was informed by Gen Paul, the beauty was married to a man both brutal and jealous. This suspicious husband, who happened to have a wild and disreputable lifestyle, regularly deserted his wife between ten at night and four in the morning, double-locked in her room, with all her shutters also padlocked. During the day he kept her under close supervision, sometimes even following her through the streets of Montmartre.
“Always on the look-out, him. S’just a great bob who can’t stand the thought of other Bengals fishing in his pond.”
But Gen Paul’s warning only fired up Dutilleul even more. Bumping into the young lady on Rue Tholozé the next day, he dared to follow her into a creamery and, while she was waiting to be served, he said that he loved her most respectfully, that he knew about everything—the dreadful husband, the locked door and the shutters, but that he would see her that very evening in her bedroom. The blonde blushed, her milk jug trembled in her hand and, her eyes moist with yearning, she sighed softly: “Alas! Monsieur, it is impossible.”
On the evening of this glorious day, by around ten o’clock, Dutilleul was keeping watch in Rue Norvins, observing a robust outer wall behind which stood a small house, the only signs of which were the weathervane and a chimney. A door in the wall opened and a man emerged who, after carefully locking the door behind him, walked off down the hill towards Avenue Junot. Dutilleul watched him vanish from view, far away at a bend in the road below, then counted to ten. Then he leapt forward, strode through the wall like an athlete and, after dashing through every obstacle, finally penetrated the bedroom belonging to the beautiful recluse. She welcomed him rapturously and they made love until late into the night.
The following morning, Dutilleul was annoyed to wake up with a nasty headache. It did not bother him badly and he wasn’t going to let such a minor thing keep him from his next rendezvous. Still, when he happened to find a few pills scattered at the back of a drawer, he gulped down one that morning and one in the afternoon. By evening, his headache was bearable and in his elation he managed to forget it completely. The young woman was waiting for him with an impatience fanned by memories of the night before, and that night they made love until three o’clock in the morning.
When he was leaving, while walking through the partitions and walls of the house, Dutilleul had the unfamiliar feeling that they were rubbing on his hips and at his shoulders. Nevertheless, he thought it best not to pay much attention to this. Besides, it was only on entering the outer wall that he really met with considerable resistance. It felt as though he were moving through a substance that, while still fluid, was growing sticky and, at every effort he made, taking on greater density. Having managed to push himself right into the wall, he realised that he was no longer moving forward and, horrified, remembered the two pills he had taken during the day. Those pills, which he had thought were aspirin, in fact contained the powder of tetravalent pirette that the doctor had prescribed him the year before. The medication’s effects combined with that of intensive over-exertion were now, suddenly, being realised.
Dutilleul was as if transfixed within the wall. He is still there today, incorporated into the stonework. Night-time revellers walking down Rue Norvins at an hour when the buzz of Paris dies down can hear a muffled voice that seems to reach them from beyond the tomb and which they take for the moans of the wind as it blows through the crossroads of Montmartre. It is Werewolf Dutilleul, lamenting the end of his glorious career and the sorrows of a love cut short. On some winter nights, the painter Gen Paul may happen to take down his guitar and venture out into the sonorous solitude of Rue Norvins to console the poor prisoner with a song, and the notes of his guitar, rising from his swollen fingers, pierce to the heart of the wall like drops of moonlight.
BEER TRIP TO LLANDUDNO
Kevin Barry
Kevin Barry (1969–) is an Irish author, playwright and screenwriter. He is the author of the novels Beatlebone and City of Bohane and the story collections Dark Lies the Island, from which this story is taken, and There Are Little Kingdoms. His awards include the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, the Goldsmiths Prize, the Sunday Times EFG Short Story Prize and the Lannan Foundation Literary Award.
It was a pig of a day, as hot as we’d had, and we were down to our T-shirts taking off from Lime Street. This was a sight to behold – we were all of us biggish lads. It was Real Ale Club’s July outing, a Saturday, and we’d had word of several good houses to be found in Llandudno. I was double-jobbing for Ale Club that year. I was in charge of publications and outings both. Which was controversial.
‘Rhyl… We’ll pass Rhyl, won’t we?’
This was Mo.
‘We’d have come over to Rhyl as kids,’ said Mo. ‘Ferry and coach. I remember the rollercoasters.’
‘Never past Prestatyn, me,’ said Tom Neresford.
Tom N – so-called; there were three Toms in Ale Club – rubbed at his belly in a worried way. There was sympathy for that. We all knew stomach trouble for a bugger.
‘Down on its luck’d be my guess,’ said Everett Bell. ‘All these old North Wales resorts have suffered dreadfully, haven’t they? Whole mob’s gone off to bloody Laos on packages. Bloody Cambodia, bucket and spade.’
Everett wasn’t inclined to take the happy view of things. Billy Stroud, the ex-Marxist, had nothing to offer about Llandudno. Billy was involved with his timetables.
‘Two minutes and fifty seconds late taking off,’ he said, as the train skirted the Toxteth estates. ‘This thing hits Llandudno for 1.55 p.m., I’m an exotic dancer.’
Aigburth station offered a clutch of young girls in their summer skimpies. Oiled flesh, unscarred tummies, and it wasn’t yet noon. We groaned under our breaths. We’d taken on a crate of Marston’s Old Familiar for the journey, 3.9 per cent to volume. Outside, the estuary sulked away in terrific heat and Birkenhead shimmered across the water. Which wasn’t like Birkenhead. I opened my AA Illustrated Guide to Britain’s Coast and read from its entry on Llandudno:
‘A major resort of the North Wales coastline, it owes its well-planned streets and promenade to one Edward Mostyn, who, in the mid-19th century—’
‘Victorian effort,’ said John Mosely. ‘Thought as much.’ If there was a dad figure among us, it was Big John, with his know-it-all interruptions.
‘Who, in the mid-19th century,’ I repeated, ‘laid out a new town on former marshland below…’
‘They’ve built it on a marsh, have they?’ said Everett Bell. ‘TB,’ said Billy Stroud. ‘Marshy environment was considered healthful.’
‘Says here there’s water skiing available from Llandudno jetty.’
‘That’ll be me,’ said Mo, and we all laughed.
Hot as pigs, but companionable, and the train was in Cheshire quick enough. We had dark feelings about Cheshire that summer. At the North West Beer Festival, in the spring, the Cheshire crew had come over a shade cocky. Just because they were chocka with half-beam pubs in pretty villages. Warrington lads were fine. We could take the Salford lot even. But the Cheshire boys were arrogant and we sniffed as we passed through their country.
‘A bloody suburb, essentially,’ said Everett.
‘Chester’s a regular shithole,’ said Mo.
‘But you’d have to allow Delamere Forest is a nice walk?’ said Tom N.
Eyebrows raised at this, Tom N not being an obvious forest walker.
‘You been lately, Tom? Nice walk?’
Tom nodded, all sombre.
‘Was out for a Christmas tree, actually,’ he said.
This brought gales of laughter. It is strange what comes over as hilarious when hangovers are general. We had the windows open to circulate what breeze there was. Billy Stroud had an earpiece in for the radio news. He winced:
‘They’re saying it’ll hit 36.5,’ he said. ‘Celsius.’
We sighed. We sipped. We made Wales quick enough and we raised our Marston’s to it. Better this than to be stuck in a garden listening to a missus. We meet as much as five nights of the week, more often six. There are those who’d call us a bunch of sots but we don’t see ourselves like that. We see ourselves as hobbyists. The train pulled into Flint and Tom N went on the platform to fetch in some beef ’n’ gravies from the Pie-O-Matic.
‘Just the thing,’ said Billy Stroud, as we sweated over our dripping punnets. ‘Cold stuff causes the body too much work, you feel worse. But a nice hot pie goes down a treat. Perverse, I know. But they’re on the curries in Bombay, aren’t they?’
‘Mumbai,’ said Everett.
The train scooted along the fried coast. We made solid headway into the Marston’s. Mo was down a testicle since the spring. We’d called in at the Royal the night of his operation. We’d stopped at the Ship and Mitre on the way – they’d a handsome bitter from Clitheroe on guest tap. We needed the fortification: when Real Ale Club boys parade down hospital wards, we tend to draw worried glances from the whitecoats. We are shaped like those chaps in the warning illustrations on cardiac charts. We gathered around Mo and breathed a nice fog of bitter over the lad and we joshed him but gently.
‘Sounding a little high-pitched, Mo?’
‘Other lad’s going to be worked overtime.’
‘Diseased bugger you’ll want in a glass jar, Mo. One for the mantelpiece.’
Love is a strong word, but. We were family to Mo when he was up the Royal having the bollock out. We passed Flint Castle and Everett Bell piped up.
‘Richard the Second,’ he said.
We raised eyebrows. We were no philistines at Ale Club, Merseyside branch. Everett nodded, pleased.
‘This is where he was backed into a corner,’ he said. ‘By Bolingbroke.’
‘Boling who?’
‘Bolingbroke, the usurper. Old Dick surrendered for a finish. At Flint Castle. Or that’s how Shakespeare had it.’
‘There’s a contrary view, Ev?’
‘Some say it was more likely Conwy but I’d be happy with the Bard’s read,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, the matter closed.
‘We’ll pass Conwy Castle in a bit, won’t we?’
I consulted my Illustrated AA.
‘We’ll not,’ I said. ‘But we may well catch a glimpse across the estuary from Llandudno Junction.’
There was a holiday air at the stations. Families piled on, the dads with papers, the mams with lotion, the kids with phones. The beer ran out by Abergele and this was frowned upon: poor planning. We were reduced to buying train beer, Worthington’s. Sourly we sipped and Everett came and had a go.
‘Maybe if one man wasn’t in charge of outings and publications,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t be running dry halfways to Llandudno.’
‘True, Everett,’ I said, calmly, though I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. ‘So if anyone cares to step up, I’ll happily step aside. From either or.’
‘We need you on publications, kid,’ said John Mosely. ‘You’re the man for the computers.’
Publications lately was indeed largely web-based. I maintained our site on a regular basis, posting beer-related news and links. I was also looking into online initiatives to attract the younger drinker.
‘I’m happy on publications, John,’ I said. ‘The debacle with the newsletter aside.’
Newsletter had been a disaster, I accepted that. The report on the Macclesfield outing had been printed upside down. Off-colour remarks had been made about a landlady in Everton, which should never have got past an editor’s eye, as the lady in question kept very fine pumps. It hadn’t been for want of editorial meetings. We’d had several, mostly down the Grapes of Wrath.
‘So how’s about outings then?’ I said, as the train swept by Colwyn Bay. ‘Where’s our volunteer there? Who’s for the step-up?’
Everett showed a palm to placate me.
‘There’s nothin’ personal in this, lad,’ he said.
‘I know that, Ev.’
Ale Club outings were civilised events. They never got aggressive. Maudlin, yes, but never aggressive. Rhos-on-Sea; the Penrhyn sands. We knew Everett had been through a hard time. His old dad passed on and there’d been sticky business with the will. Ev would turn a mournful eye on us, at the bar of the Lion, in the snug of the Ship, and he’d say:
‘My brother got the house, my sister got the money, I got the manic depression.’
Black as his moods could be, as sharp as his tongue, Everett was tender. Train came around Little Ormes Head and Billy Stroud went off on one about Ceauşescu.
‘Longer it recedes in the mind’s eye,’ he said, ‘the more like Romania seems the critical moment.’
‘Apropos of, Bill?’
‘Apropos my arse. As for Liverpool? Myth was piled upon myth, wasn’t it? They said Labour sent out termination notices to council workers by taxi. Never bloody happened! It was an anti-red smear!’
‘Thatcher’s sick and old, Billy,’ said John Mosely.
‘Aye an’ her spawn’s all around us yet,’ said Billy, and he broke into a broad smile, his humours mysteriously righted, his fun returned.
Looming, then, the shadow of Great Ormes Head, and beneath it a crescent swathe of bay, a beach, a prom, and terraces: here lay Llandudno.
‘1.55 p.m.,’ said Everett. ‘On the nose.’
‘Where’s our exotic dancer?’ teased Mo.
Billy Stroud sadly raised his T-shirt above his man boobs. He put his arms above his head and gyrated slowly his vast belly and danced his way off the train. We lost weight in tears as we tumbled onto the platform.
‘How much for a private session, miss?’ called Tom N.
‘Tenner for twenty minutes,’ said Billy. ‘Fiver, I’ll stay the full half-hour. ’
We walked out of Llandudno station and plumb into a headbutt of heat.
‘Blood and tar!’ I cried. ‘We’ll be hittin’ the lagers!’
‘Wash your mouth out with soap and water,’ said John Mosely.
Big John rubbed his hands together and led the way – Big John was first over the top. He reminded us there was business to hand.
‘We’re going to need a decision,’ he said, ‘about the National Beer Scoring System.’
Here was kerfuffle. The NBSS, by long tradition, ranked a beer from nought to five. Nought was take-backable, a crime against the name of ale. One was barely drinkable, two so-so, three an eyebrow raised in mild appreciation. A four was an ale on top form, a good beer in proud nick. A five was angel’s tears but a seasoned drinker would rarely dish out a five, would over the course of a lifetime’s quaffing call no more than a handful of fives. Such was the NBSS, as was. However, Real Ale Club, Merseyside branch, had for some time felt that the system lacked subtlety. And one famous night, down Rigby’s, we came up with our own system – we marked from nought to ten. Finer gradations of purity were thus allowed for. The nuances of a beer were more properly considered. A certain hoppy tang, redolent of summer hedgerows, might elevate a brew from a seven to an eight. The mellow back-note born of a good oak casking might lift an ale again, and to the rare peaks of the nines. Billy Stroud had argued for decimal breakdown, for 7.5s and 8.5s – Billy would – but we had to draw a line somewhere. The national organisation responded badl
y. They sent stiff word down the email but we continued to forward our beer reports with markings on a nought to ten scale. There was talk now of us losing the charter. These were heady days.
‘Stuff them is my view,’ said Everett Bell.
‘We’d lose a lot if we lost the charter,’ said Mo. ‘Think about the festival invites. Think about the history of the branch.’
‘Think about the bloody future!’ cried Tom N. ‘We haven’t come up with a new system to be awkward. We’ve done it for the ale drinkers. We’ve done it for the ale makers!’
I felt a lump in my throat and I daresay I wasn’t alone.
‘Ours is the better system,’ said Everett. ‘This much we know.’
‘You’re right,’ said John Mosely, and this was the clincher, Big John’s call. ‘I say we score nought to ten.’
‘If you lot are in, that’s good enough for me,’ I said.
Six stout men linked arms on a hot Llandudno pavement. We rounded the turn onto the prom and our first port of call: the Heron Inn.
Which turned out to be an anti-climax. A nice house, lately refurbished, but mostly keg rubbish on the taps. The Heron did, however, do a Phoenix Tram Driver on cask, 3.8 per cent, and we sat with six of same.
