Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  ‌‌1

  October 2004

  A Friday morning. The weather is cloudless but chilly. It’s a half-way decent day, at least; there’s no rain, but it’s not warm enough to really sweat. I stand on the edge of the loading bay and look down as the teleloader drives up to the pack of concrete blocks below. From the cab, the driver waves at me and I raise my thumb to him. The diesel engine picks up again and the forks extend under the pallet, then lift and carry the blocks towards me. I wave the driver on and step back as the pallet slides onto the scaffold. The fork withdraws and I begin to rip the plastic off the pack. I don’t rush. Geoff and Barry still have plenty to be going on with; looking down the platform, I can see them laying blocks.

  They stand a few feet apart and move along the wall a couple of steps at a time. Barry leads with one course of blocks, and Geoff lays the course on top of that. They work with smooth, unflustered concentration. Even when one of them picks up a cracked block that falls in half as he lifts it, he chucks the pieces away without a second look and only the barest of murmured curses. The bits of concrete sail groundward and thump into the mud, easily capable of killing anyone they hit. Despite this, some of the men still save their hard hats for official inspections only.

  We’re building a temple, as a matter of fact. Barry has plenty to say about this, but he doesn’t really care – none of us do. We’ll never even see the finished thing; as soon as the walls are up, we’ll clear off to the next job. We might go even sooner if we get pissed off, or kicked off. To be fair, though, it’s a long time since we were kicked off a site. We’re a good crew, whatever that means. Besides, getting kicked off a site involves fucking up royally, and we’re all well past that sort of nonsense. There’s a twisted pride to be had in doing a decent job, even though you hate the work.

  If you wanted to, though, you could really make a mess: a mess so bad that a man, maybe several men, could die. All you’d have to do is look serious when whichever idiot in a hi-vis vest and tie walked past. He might stop and have a look, perhaps even get his tape out, and then maybe say something like, ‘It needs to come up five mil by that end,’ but he wouldn’t notice that anything was seriously wrong, he’d just keep walking.

  These thoughts linger, unsaid, in the silence of the cabin at lunchtime, until someone breathes, ‘Thirty-odd more years of this shite,’ and then everyone’s lottery fantasy comes tumbling out, warming the place, and even the most pig-ignorant sod on the site can achieve a certain eloquence in the telling of it, because they get plenty of practice – the same story day after day, slipping through clumsy mouths like worn rosary beads through arthritic hands. ‘Ah well, live in hope, eh?’ someone says.

  I load blocks into my wheelbarrow, two at a time, stacking them neatly to get as many in as possible. It takes a bit of grunt to get it rolling, but once it’s moving, it goes easily – stopping is the harder part. I guide the barrow down the platform, towards Geoff and Barry, and then squeeze behind them to draw up slightly past where they’re working. I load out, starting a stack for each of them so they can move along and continue the course.

  Geoff looks over. ‘All right, Jim. They getting any lighter yet?’

  ‘No fucking chance.’

  ‘Ah well, live in hope, eh?’

  I grunt at him and go back for more.

  —

  Under the strip lighting of the Co-op everything takes on an unnatural glow. It gives me a headache, further adding to the bafflement I feel when trying to shop. I’m surrounded by groceries and I can’t make a single decision. This shouldn’t be so hard for a man of thirty, but apparently it is for me. I hate it. I’ll live on tinned tomatoes for days rather than go to the supermarket, so this expedition does not constitute an ideal Friday evening. Sadly, I really do need to be here – I’ve run out of toothpaste, soap, whisky, and food, and I need a packet of sixty-watt light bulbs.

  Despite knowing all this, any sense of purpose I had deserted me as soon as I stepped through the automatic door and now I’m completely fucking zombified. In truth, I’m close to tears. I mutter, as I do every time, ‘I should have made a list.’

  I grip the trolley and start to stride up and down the aisles, hoping that when I pass something I need, it’ll trigger my memory and I’ll pick it up. It’s a hopeless situation, though: how are you supposed to know what you want when you’re surrounded by signs and labels telling you that you want something else and there’s fifty per cent extra free? And now, as if I wasn’t confused enough, Joe is walking towards me.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘All right, Joe.’

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Erm…I’m shopping, Joe.’

  ‘Me too – look.’ He brandishes a list in front of my face and then turns it round and begins to read, ‘Milk! Bread! Potatoes! Cheese! Beans! To—’

  ‘All right, Joe, I understand.’ I’m mildly surprised, but I shouldn’t be. I know he can read, and I know he can count, and I know he can use a shop, because he kept me in beer and fags during my early teenage years. But still, actually seeing Joe do something normal always surprises me. He’s a slow shambles of a man. Even in my childhood memories of him – at which point he was in his twenties and considerably slimmer than he is now – he plods and lumbers like a sleepy elephant. Slow or not, he’s making a better job of shopping than I am: his trolley already contains several items, while mine is painfully empty. I suppose he’s had plenty of practice in dealing with this sort of thing, because the way I feel in a supermarket must be the way Joe feels all the time.

  His gaze turns to a display of cakes in the bakery section and a big grin lifts his chubby, crumpled old face. ‘It’s magnificent, in’t it?’

  ‘Aye, Joe, it’s fucking magnificent.’ Actually, they don’t look that bad. Joe is pleased that I agree. ‘Are you going to get one?’ I ask, knowing the answer.

  ‘It’s not on the list.’ Joe frowns.

  ‘So what? Just get a fucking cake if you want one – it’s your disability benefit.’

  ‘No! They’re not on the list.’

  ‘All right.’ His mother will have made the list, and Joe will have received strict instructions. Joe’s mother is too old and too ill to leave the house herself. In fact, she’s too old and too ill to be alive, but she refuses to die because Joe has no one else. ‘I’m going to get one.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The chocolate one, there.’

  ‘I love chocolate, me.’

  ‘Me too.’ Joe and I approach the bakery display and I pick up the cake. It’s in a cardboard box, with a cellophane window on top. The icing looks creamy and delicious. The price tag says, ‘Two pounds ninety-nine,’ and, ‘Lovingly handmade at the in-store bakery.’ We gaze at it together and I lay it in my trolley.

  ‘Looks lovely,’ breathes Joe.

  ‘Aye, it bloody does.’ We push off, to continue our shopping together. ‘Joe, what’s the difference between a supermarket trolley and a blonde?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘The trolley has a mind of its own.’

  ‘Oh. Righto.’

  ‘It’s a joke, Joe.’

  ‘Oh.’ With Joe to talk to, the shopping becomes much easier and I feel in control again. He sails through all the crap, picking up exactly what he came for, and I follow his example. At the checkout, Joe has his money counted out before it’s even his turn. Joe’s mother has been doing things the same way for a very long time indeed, so Joe shops from a rather limited slate of items and has had time to memorize their price. I can imagine his consternation on the occasions when something has gone up, but this evening all is well and Joe hands over the money without a word, takes his change, and waits for me patiently. Special offers, piped music, point-of-sale advert
ising are all powerless against his unyielding regime. His idiocy is his force field; he stands astride the aisles like a simple-minded colossus.

  Finally, I get my groceries bagged up and breathe a sigh of relief. ‘All right, Joe. Do you want a lift home?’

  ‘Aye, that’s magnificent, that.’

  ‘Howay, then, as long as you make a brew – I can’t eat all that cake myself.’

  ‘Aye, you’d be a right fat bastard if you did.’

  I shoot him a sidelong glance and realize that he knew all along. Sly bugger, he’s never quite as daft as you think he is.

  —

  Joe and I chomp chocolate cake and slurp tea in his mother’s kitchen, run-down but spotless. Loud snores emanate from the front room, where Joe’s mother has fallen asleep in front of the blaring TV.

  ‘Fucking hell, Joe. How does someone so small make so much noise?’

  ‘Who’s small?’

  ‘Your mam. She sounds like a fucking elephant.’

  Joe giggles. I shake my head, bite cake, and slug at my tea.

  ‘You’ve got chocolate on your face,’ says Joe.

  ‘You what?’ I pick up a teaspoon, to see my reflection, but Joe is already reaching over to dab at my face with a bit of kitchen roll, motherly concern on his face. ‘Fuck off, man. I can get it myself.’ I push his hand away.

  ‘Just helping,’ he says matter of factly.

  I grunt a reply and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, leaving a chocolate smear near my wrist. I lick it off.

  ‘You’re a mother hen, you,’ I tell him.

  Joe thinks about this for a moment, and then starts to make chicken noises and flap his elbows.

  ‘I’ll wring your neck like one in a minute.’ But it’s too late, I’m already laughing at him – his eyes bunched up, his bottom lip pushed out, and his cap pulled low over his brow. Joe stands up and begins to parade back and forth across the kitchen, clucking. ‘You’re crackers! Sit down!’ I shout, through my laughter.

  ‘All right, keep your hair on,’ he says, sitting.

  ‘Keep my hair on?’ I snatch his cap from his head. Joe suddenly looks bereft, separated from his hat. I inspect the embroidered logo. ‘What the fuck is Chicago Bears?’

  ‘Dunno. Bears, I think, in Chicago.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ I ask, out of mischief.

  ‘Somewhere down South. Near London.’

  ‘Oh, you been there?’

  ‘No. I bought it off Sharon. Nine ninety-nine. Mam said I needed a new hat.’

  ‘Sharon?’

  ‘Aye, the lady in Allsports. She’s got a badge.’

  ‘Oh, the one that says, “Hello. My name is Sharon”?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve had her.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There’s a stirring from the other room and the snoring has stopped. I hand back Joe’s cap as his mother shuffles in.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Joe,’ I greet her.

  ‘Hello,’ she replies, with a slight suspicion that could lead me to believe that she doesn’t remember who I am, though I know that she does. She’s stooped and looks groggy from sleep. ‘You woke me,’ she says.

  Quite frankly, I regard this accusation with some scepticism: nothing Joe or I did came even remotely close to the volume of her television. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs Joe.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep there anyway – it’s bad for my back.’

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I look around the kitchen. ‘Your lino’s coming up in that corner,’ I inform her.

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll come round tomorrow and stick it down for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind. Have you eaten yet?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ That’s not quite a lie, since I did manage a couple of slices of toast before I went to the Co-op.

  ‘Oh, I made some shepherd’s pie earlier. There’s some leftovers. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?’

  ‘No, thanks, Mrs Joe. I’d better get going actually.’ Barry and Geoff will be in the Admiral already. It’s Friday night and I’m ready to start drinking.

  ‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes, you will. Goodnight. See you later, Joe.’

  ‘See you later, alligator!’ Joe smiles at me, replete with chocolate.

  ‘In a while, crocodile.’

  I pick up my jacket and make for the kitchen door, but Joe calls after me, ‘Don’t forget your cake!’

  ‘That’s all right – you hang on to it, Joe. I’m watching my figure.’ I step out into the October night and catch the smell of burning leaves. A slight drizzle has set in. I sigh, turn up my collar, and walk back to the car.

  —

  ‘You’re a bit late.’ Barry squints up at me through the smoke of his cigarette. These days, everything he says seems to come with a sneer. From above him, I can see the beginnings of a bald patch in his curly brown hair. The three of us are the same age and work in the same places, exposed to the same elements every day, but Barry looks at least ten years older than Geoff or me.

  ‘I had to go shopping.’

  Barry snorts and pretends to check his watch. ‘Who for, a fucking army?’

  ‘Never mind. You all right for drinks?’

  ‘Yeah,’ says Geoff. ‘We just got ’em in.’

  I dump my jacket on the back of a free chair and make my way to the bar. I buy a drink – shit bitter, given the illusion of substance by a thick nitro-keg head. Normally, I would resort to lager when faced with such a dismal choice, but this is my local, and a man shouldn’t have to drink lager in his local. There are two other pubs in the village, and the Admiral is the worst of the three. We frequent it out of habit. We’re ingrained in this place just like the dirt and the fag ash. None of us has ever suggested that we drink elsewhere.

  I get back to our table and sit. The pub hums with Friday-night bitching and belching.

  ‘They’re taking over, the black cunts.’

  ‘Aye, Barry, they’re taking over.’ Geoff nods with bland sympathy and rubs the back of his head as if he were polishing it. Immigration is one of Barry’s favourite topics and I hear exactly this crap from him several times a week. His fleshy lips are shiny with spit and beer, and his face is red with alcohol and argument. Geoff, with his shaved head and impressive beer belly, looks like a lucky Buddha in jeans and T-shirt. At any rate, he is the centre of contentment around which Barry’s fury can flow without meeting much resistance. Barry likes it that way.

  ‘We should drop a fucking nuclear bomb on the lot of them.’

  ‘A bit extreme that, Baz,’ Geoff says amiably.

  ‘Aye, it is, but they’re extreme themselves, aren’t they? It’s what they understand.’ Barry takes a big gulp of his beer, as if he’s wetting his whistle, the better to continue a debate.

  Geoff takes advantage of the pause to light another cigarette and then turns to me. ‘Y’all right?’

  ‘Aye, not bad, mate – just knackered.’

  ‘Get that beer down you, then. You’ve catching up to do.’

  ‘The point is, Geoff, they’re all over there, chopping each other to pieces and fucking up their own countries, and then they want to come here and get a fucking hand-out. In the meantime, us three are working for a living, and what do we get for it?’ Barry floats the question over the table as though he expects something profound in response.

  ‘Fuck all, mate,’ sighs Geoff.

  ‘Exactly! Fuck. All.’

  ‘Well,’ I join in, ‘it pays for the beer, like.’

  Geoff snorts, but Barry looks at me as if I’m an idiot. ‘Look, it’s all right for you,’ he huffs. ‘You’re free and single, but I’ve got a family to raise and this country is going to shit.’

  I fail to see what raising a family has got to do with it – apart from the fact that Barry always wants to act as if he’s older and wiser – but I just shrug and tak
e a drink of beer. There is no point in stirring him up. Besides, I’ve got nothing to prove to Barry.

  Geoff nudges me in the ribs. ‘Here comes trouble.’

  I glance over and groan. Sinister Steve – the local one-stop shop for anything knocked off or bootlegged – has slipped through the door. He looks at us. The pub is crowded, but Steve moves through the throng like smoke and arrives directly behind Barry. He taps him on the shoulder.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ Barry twists in his chair.

  ‘All right, mate?’

  ‘You fucking sneaky bastard. I almost dropped me pint.’

  ‘Yeah, good evening to you too.’ Steve nods at me and Geoff, then pulls over a stool and sits down next to Barry, too close. Barry stiffens slightly, but he stays still and lets Steve talk into the side of his face. I can’t hear their conversation, but it doesn’t last long before the pair of them get up and leave together. ‘Back in a minute,’ says Barry.

  ‘What’s that all about?’ I ask Geoff.

  ‘He’s banned from selling fags in the pub, so he does it in the car park instead.’

  ‘Right. Are you ready for another?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Fuck off, it’s not even my round. Anyway, you both owe me for the lottery, and you’re the worst – you’re two fucking weeks behind. If we win, I’ll keep it for myself.’

  ‘All right, all right, calm down. It was worth a try.’

  I go to the bar and buy another round. When I return to our table, Barry is back with two large cartons of cigarettes wrapped in a plastic bag.

  ‘Got what you wanted, then.’

  ‘No, I was hoping he’d have some frilly knickers in stock.’

  ‘Well, we had our suspicions.’ I lean over to put the drinks down, and as I do so, I get a whiff of something coming from Barry’s direction. ‘Have you stood in dog shit?’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Something smells.’

  Barry leans to one side and checks his feet. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Bollocks. I was only in the fucking car park.’

  ‘Well, you’d better go back there.’

  Barry shakes his head like a man who has become accustomed to having every noble principle crushed. ‘Modern Britain, eh?’ He lets it hang there, as if we all know exactly what is wrong with the world.