Serve Cool

by Davies, Lauren

  ‘Aye, an’ a pint of Exhibition,’ yelled his missus, from the opposite end of the bar. This sparked a heated response.

  ‘Howay woman, get yer own chuffin’ pint. I’m not ganna pay fer you to get fatter than you are.’

  ‘Piss off, ya bleedin’ scruff.’

  ‘I’ll smack ya if yer startin’ on us like.’

  I turned away and busied myself with fishing the putrid-smelling eggs out of the jar that stood on the counter behind the bar. Another typical lunchtime shift at the Scrap Inn, especially when Denise and Derek were present. I glanced at the clock above me – 12:32 p.m. Maz probably wouldn’t be back for at least another two hours. I was starting to feel tense. This was my first time going solo behind the bar and I would admit to being absolutely terrified. Maz had finally decided to go for her first talk-show host audition and, in a moment of madness, I had agreed to do the shift alone. ‘Yeah, sure Maz, no problem. It’ll be good experience for me.’ Good experience, my arse. Having my teeth forcibly extracted without anaesthetic would have been more enjoyable. My original bravado was starting to dwindle.

  The eggs and cigarettes had just changed hands when the pub door burst open, smashed against the wall and sent the recently hung ‘No smoking section’ sign crashing to the floor.

  ‘F’kin’ na smokin’ section. What a load o’ shite,’ shouted ‘Auld Vinny’, the pub’s eldest regular, as he stumbled through the door and kicked the sign across the floor. He tripped down the stairs and wobbled towards me, as I hurriedly uncapped his bottle of ‘broon’. Auld Vinny was not one to be kept waiting.

  ‘What f’kin’ time d’ya call this to open eh?’ he yelled, waggling an ancient finger vaguely in my direction. ‘I was ootside at eleven o’clock and ya wasny open. I cannot believe it disny open at eleven. I’m ganna call the f’kin’ brewery, man!’

  I decided against explaining the intricacies of licensing laws and instead smiled inanely as my third customer attempted to climb onto the bar stool which was nailed to the floor. Auld Vinny definitely had an individual style. He wore a dirty brown jacket, black trousers tied with string, white socks, and lime-green deck shoes. His house key hung on a string around his thick neck. As always, the ensemble was finished off with a neon orange cap bearing the logo ‘The Ultimate International Sex Machine’.

  ‘A bottle o’ broon an’ a pint of arsenic,’ yelled Vinny. ‘I’m sick as shite.’

  ‘Here you go, Vinny.’ I put the bottle in front of him and watched his bunch of ring-clad, tattooed fingers shakily clasp the bottle.

  ‘Chuffin’ hell,’ Auld Vinny exclaimed, spitting a mouthful of beer all over the bar, ‘what the hell d’ya call that, man?’

  ‘Umm,’ I stuttered. ‘Umm.’ I pointed nervously at the label.

  Vinny lifted the bottle and held it close to my face. ‘Serve cool,’ he said seriously. ‘That’s what it says on the bleedin’ label woman. Cool, not friggin’ arctic.’

  ‘S … sorry,’ I began, grabbing another bottle that hadn’t come straight from the store room. ‘S … sorry.’

  ‘Aye, well.’ Vinny eyed me cagily. ‘Aye, well you’ll learn.’

  I tried to smile pleasantly while I racked my brain for some form of conversation.

  I can’t do it, my brain stressed. I can’t relate to these people.

  ‘What’r ya smilin’ like a bleedin’ loony for, woman?’ Auld Vinny finished his half-bottle swig and stared sternly at me with his dark grey eyes.

  ‘There isny much ta friggin’ smile aboot today, woman, I tell’t ya.’

  I smiled meekly then forced a frown in a vain attempt to fit in. Fearing for my health, I looked away and hurriedly began cleaning the bar for the fourth time that morning.

  From the outside looking in, this job had always seemed so easy. Pull a few pints, say, ‘What can I get you, darlin’?’ and show a bit of cleavage. How hard could it possibly be? Harder than eating rice with chopsticks, I had since discovered. I couldn’t even serve a decent beer from a ready to drink bottle.

  Maz was so good at the banter. She gave as good as she got, if not better. I, on the other hand, always seemed to be stuck for words so I spent most of the day smiling like a mental patient (post-lobotomy) and making agreeable noises. The regulars were all hardened Geordies, fully qualified in alcoholism, fighting or swearing or even a mixture of all three. I was assured by Maz they were harmless yet I still feared for my life at least a dozen times a day, usually from the women. Maz had promised me that I would find it easier and more enjoyable given time, but I wasn’t convinced.

  Mind you, time was the one thing I definitely did have. Over the previous five days, I had received my P45, said goodbye to any hopes of a job in the legal profession, been unceremoniously removed from my flat, and moved in with Maz. It was a strange role reversal, having to rely financially as well as emotionally on my best friend. I had convinced myself it was temporary but as the days had passed I had realised that Maz’s offer of some shifts in the Scrap Inn was my only option. There was no space for pride in the equation.

  ‘Are ya listenin’ ta me, wuman?’ yelled Auld Vinny. I stopped cleaning and quickly uncapped another bottle of Brown Ale.

  ‘What was that you were saying, Vinny?’ I asked shakily.

  ‘Jesus. Does naybody listen these days? I said me father went doonstairs like.’

  ‘Downstairs? What for?’

  ‘Aye. Doonstairs, ye kna. He cannat have gan to heaven the auld bastard.’

  Auld Vinny was definitely one for random conversation. If one could do a degree in irrelevant banter this guy would have a PhD.

  ‘Auld bastard I tell’t ya me father,’ he continued. ‘I was happy as piggin’ shite when I see him get dead. Happy as chuffin’ Larry when the auld twat died. I tell’t ya there al’ the same, fathers.’

  ‘Actually, my dad’s really nice. I —’

  ‘Auld git. I’d say hello to the blowk and I’d be on the deck, man. Wham, just fer lookin’ at him like.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ (Zero out of ten for inspirational responses.)

  Vinny continued. ‘And mention God in the house, man. He’d deck ya. “Never mention that bloody word in this house again.” Floor ya, he would, the auld git.’

  He paused, took a swig of beer and redeemed the half-eaten meat pie that had been festering among the fluff in his jacket pocket. I looked anywhere but directly at him, to avoid the open-mouthed chewing display. It was like watching a trifle in a washing machine. When the horse-like chewing noise became less deafening, I made a further attempt at conversation.

  ‘So how are you feeling today, Vinny?’ (OK, so it was boring but it was a start.)

  ‘Terrible man,’ he growled. ‘I went to the bloody doctor this mornin’ like before I came to the pub which was fuc —’

  ‘Not open yet.’

  ‘Aye. A bloody wuman the doctor was that I saw. Anyway, I meybe auld but I’m not sexualist ye kna. I divny give a monkey’s what the bastard is as long as they kna what to do when they get us like.’

  I nodded enthusiastically as his eyes held mine.

  ‘D’ye kna what she tell’t us?’

  ‘No Vinny, what was that?’ I cleared my throat and tried to relax.

  ‘She says, “Vinny, you’re as fit as a lion.” I says, “Piss off man, woman, man, I’m fit to drop.” ’

  I laughed nervously.

  ‘Straits that’s what I tell’t her. Aye they’re ganna make me suffer before I go I tell’t ya.’

  At this point, Denise and Derek finished another argument and decided to join us. We made a peculiar foursome. Auld Vinny, a wrinkled old seaman, with skin like a crocodile handbag, Denise, whose ‘wide load’ frame was squeezed into stilettos and ski-pants, Derek her husband, whose idea of heaven was three pints before breakfast and daily re-runs of Auf Wiedersehen Pet, and me. I listened to them talking, tried to nod and laugh at appropriate moments, but rarely added anything myself. I felt as out of place as an over-sized tunic in Anneka Rice’
s wardrobe, totally surrounded by jumpsuits and unable to relate to a single one of them. I was sure they were hardly aware of my existence, unlike Maz who held court when she was on duty. The whole scenario was light years away from my none-too-distant previous life and I wasn’t sure how to adjust. I must admit, though, I was beginning to find them strangely entertaining.

  ‘How much d’ya get a week, Vinny?’ asked Derek through a mouthful of pork scratchings. The conversation had somehow jumped from coronary thrombosis, haemorrhoids and bed baths to economics.

  ‘Aye Vinny tell’t us how much ya get,’ shouted Denise, hitching up her knickers above her ski pants.

  ‘I get sixty-seven pount a week al done.’

  ‘Howay man, Vinny,’ Denise interjected, ‘you should be well off, man. I get aboot thirty-five pount a week and that’s my lot. You should be livin’ in a f’kin’ palace, Vinny man.’

  Vinny did reply but my attention was diverted by the sound of ‘The Shoe’ pulling up outside. ‘Thank you God.’ Maz was back. I glanced at the clock – 1:30 p.m. I heard the back gate open and close and waited with bated breath for my friend to appear. I had survived.

  ‘Where the bollocks have you been?’ Vinny shouted as Maz strode up to the bar from the back entrance. ‘Left us with a bleedin’ southerner you did.’

  ‘Howay y’auld git. She’s my best friend so shut yer flippin’ mouth.’ She laughed loudly and knocked Vinny’s hat off.

  Everyone laughed and I felt a twinge of jealousy. Like me too. Like me too. I almost started to sulk but then I remembered Maz’s audition. As she gabbled away with her regulars, keeping them in hysterics, I thought I detected a slight watery look in her eyes but I couldn’t be certain. Anyway, Maz never cried, it wasn’t her style. She was ‘tough as auld boots’, as she herself often said.

  ‘Aye Vinny man. It’s yer birthday tomorra, isn’t it?’ said Maz as she opened a bag of scampi fries and shoveled half of them into her mouth.

  ‘Aye it is, bloody birthdays. I’m sick of the swine, they shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘Well, Jen here and I thought we’d give you a party.’ (First I’d heard but I nodded agreeably.)

  ‘Jesus chuffin’ Christ. I hope I don’t even see me bloody birthday me! They’re a waste of bloody time. I’ve never had one good day in me life so what would I wanna gan celebratin’ aboot eh?’

  ‘Oh come on, Vinny.’ We all joined in, sensing Maz’s enjoyment.

  ‘Piss off. I divny wanna birthday.’

  Maz grinned, ‘Well we’re havin’ a party anyhow, you miserable sod, and if you dain’t come we’ll be celebratin’ without you. So pack it in and get another pint doon yer neck.’

  The next couple of hours continued along the same lines. It was only when our regulars left for a short break before their night shift that I finally had a chance to talk to my friend.

  ‘So come on then,’ I said, jumping up to sit on the bar. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘How d’you think?’

  ‘Well I don’t know. Did you get an audition? Tell me.’

  ‘Aye I got an audition alreet.’

  ‘Great!’

  ‘Na, shite. I got to say aboot three sentences before they interrupted us.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Exactly? Well the blowk in charge of production said nothin’ but his little gobshite of an assistant had plenty to say.’

  Maz broke into her best posh voice: ‘“I’m awfully sorry, sweetie, but that will be all for now. You aren’t raylay what we’re looking for.” ’

  ‘Well what were they looking for?’ I asked. I could tell that Maz was upset.

  She said, ‘Um, you know, somebody a little less … regional.’

  ‘Regional? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Exactly, bleedin’ cheek. In other words, I was too flippin’ Geordie to host the show. Well what do they expect if they do the bloody auditions in Newcastle? It’s a load of crap man!’

  ‘That can’t be it. They can’t possibly use that as a justification. What’s wrong with having an accent? Not every person on TV has to sound like Sue Lawley for us to understand them. That’s shocking.’

  ‘Aye. Well I went canny mental but she didn’t budge. She said I didn’t have the right experience.’

  ‘But you know those shows inside out.’

  ‘I kna. I tell’t her that. Jen, I know I’d be good at it. I’ve been through so many of the sorts of things that people need to discuss on these shows. Except, maybe, transgendering, sleeping with aliens or reincarnation, but anyhow, I’d be good. I know I would.’

  I could see how hurt Maz was feeling. She’d opened herself up to rejection and hated feeling the pride that had taken so long to build up be bashed away by a mid-twenties media bitch with little grasp of everyday life in the real world.

  ‘Don’t worry, mate.’ I put my arm around Maz’s shoulders and gave her a wink. ‘I like you common.’

  She smiled and punched me in the arm.

  ‘F’kin’ southerner,’ she laughed.

  We hugged then sat in silence for a minute. Maz gazed up at the framed autographed photo of Ricki Lake that hung above the last orders bell. She had sent off for it from the official fan club and it hung as a shrine to her ultimate goal.

  Finally I broke the silence. ‘So who did they pick in the end?’

  ‘Ah some auld tramp who looked like Judith bloody Chalmers on steroids. Apparently she had the experience but I reckon it was the accent she had. She spoke as if she had a gobful of royal plums. “Aybsobloodylootly Bloomin’ Marvellous Actuarly.” She was a reet cow, looked down her nose at us the whole time. Bitch.’

  I laughed at Maz’s Queen Mum voice and cracked open two beers. A medicinal Bud (or several) was required.

  ‘I might as well give up,’ Maz sighed after a couple of mouthfuls.

  ‘Shut up,’ I replied. ‘You don’t give up. What was it you told me last week? “If you give up on your ambition you aren’t going to go anywhere but down.” Well, you’re not going down and you’re certainly not going to go through life like a sad cow wondering “What if?” I’ll see to that, so pack it in and get that beer down your neck!’

  ‘Ooh, look out girlfriend,’ Maz chuckled in a mock-Texan accent. ‘Wooee, she’s got spunk. Lordee, that afternoon in the pub did her some good, she’s back to her old self again!’

  We laughed till we felt sick. It was a rare moment to savour. At that point we both realised that we were relying on each other to keep our ambitions alive. To be honest, things couldn’t get much worse, so what did we possibly have to fear?

  Chapter Six

  9th January, 9:30 p.m.

  Auld Vinny’s birthday party was really just an excuse for Maz to reduce the draughts to 90p a pint and get the punters in the door. Over the previous two months, the pub had been partially revamped by the brewery to resemble an olde worlde inn. The idea was to target families who would come for a quiet Sunday shandy and a scampi basket meal. The pool table, pinball and fruit machines had been removed and replaced with a no-smoking section, sepia photographs, and low lighting. Maz had tried to tell the powers-that-be that no amount of interior design and classical music could possibly change the make-up of the Scrap Inn. Mr and Mrs White-collar, their two-point-four children and golden retriever would not dream of parking their Audi family saloon within hiking distance of the pub for fear of returning to find out the parts had been auctioned by the local kids, piece by piece, to the scrap metal yard across the street.

  Maz had been offended that her regulars were not considered worthy enough to drink the brewery’s beer, paid for with their hard-earned cash or social. Inevitably her words of wisdom had passed unheeded. The plans for reform had been implemented almost entirely before someone in a high place suddenly woke up to reality and withdrew the budget. The madcap scheme had done nothing more than create a pub with bizarrely conflicting decor and alienate the rough and ready characters who had brought in the profi
ts.

  The official manager, Gordon, a quietly confident businessman from Edinburgh, was rarely to be seen inside the pub. He preferred, he said, to manage at a distance, usually of around 200 miles. He never confessed to being scared of the customers but he nearly had a hernia every time he walked through the door. Rumour had it that the brewery planned to sell if profits stayed low, so Maz’s plan was an attempt to rejuvenate sales and get the pub back to normal. I had started to feel of some use as we had collaborated to find ways of increasing the Scrap Inn’s popularity. Keeping my mind occupied was the best medicine, I had decided, and better for my figure, as troughing obscene quantities of anything fattening was the only other option.

  ‘Where’s the bloody pool table gone man?’ yelled a yellow-puffer-jacketed skinhead from across the bar.

  ‘It got taken away, I’m afraid,’ I replied, smiling as widely as possible in a ‘please don’t punch me’ kind of way.

  ‘What a load of bloody shite,’ came the reply, ‘gis us a pint then woman.’ (Polite as ever.)

  The pub was beginning to fill up as rumours of the 90p pints spread like wildfire through the nearby estates. Auld Vinny was also a popular character with the locals, who liked to listen to his ramblings. The tales usually involved his days at sea, his sexual conquests (even at the age of 73), the state of the government or whatever else took his fancy. A lot of people had come, allegedly to help celebrate Vinny’s birthday, but when he failed to show up, they seemed happy to settle for the cheap pints and bowls of scampi fries. Hardly surprising really.

  ‘Having fun, Jen?’ Maz shouted as she clomped past me to serve another of the loud-mouthed puffer-jacket people encamped at the far end of the bar. There seemed to be an unwritten rule of puffer-jacket hierarchy, I had decided, dictating who bought the rounds, who got to sit on a bar stool and who got to talk the loudest. I had so far deduced that tango orange came before neon yellow but both were surpassed by faux-aluminium foil reflective silver.

  ‘Magic,’ I answered sarcastically, frantically shaking my head. ‘This is bloody hard work. Perhaps we shouldn’t try and attract all these people.’