An Old Pub Near the Angel (9 page)

‘You know I might . . .’ Mick broke off. ‘When you getting married again?’

‘Week on Saturday. Isn’t it?’

‘Week on Saturday eh?’

‘I have this feeling I’m going to spew my guts.’

‘Your house.’

‘You staying the night?’

‘No got to get back. Going to Bearsden the morning. Didn’t tell you that eh? Jesus Christ! Sad! Going to Bearsden the morning. better go I think.’

‘We’ll finish the bottle before I’m sick. Should I be sick first? Who can tell eh?’

‘Who can tell? Imagine going to Bearsden in the morning?’

‘Not change your mind about the stag?’

‘No. Like to – but reasons. Reasons!’

‘Well you should be there. Best man and that should be at
the stag’s what I think. Still as long as you get me to that church eh? Who cares?’

‘Not me man. Couldn’t care less. I’m going to see you week on Saturday bright and early if not before. No bother.’

‘Repeat that?’

‘Quite simple.’ Mick stood up and stretched, almost toppling over with the effort.

‘Here!’ John poured another drink. ‘For the road. Courage for Bearsden. Jesus!’ He stared at the bottle. ‘Almost done the lot in!’

‘Oh!’ John yelled and crashed down onto his armchair.

‘What’s up?’

‘The robbery!’

‘What?’

‘Forgot to tell you the plan. Listen I’m going to rob banks in future. Natural Leader eh? Well listen to this – came to me last night in bed. A genius! Going to organise all the men on the broo. Guess how?’

‘How?’

‘Going to get a meeting together and put across the plan. Maybe two hundred guys on the broo right? Well imagine two hundred men walking into a bank. Okay give us the money! Christ a small army! Who could stop us? Nobody would know punters or robbers! Busies couldn’t do fuck all either! Two hundred handed! What busies could stop us?’

‘Jesus!’

‘Brilliant eh?’

‘Don’t know if it’d work. You think it’d work?’

‘Easy! No bother man. Two hundred handed! If they were all organised! Easy, and when we got outside we just split up and walk away and who could tell who was who? Nobody would recognise a face or anything. Genius! Anyway ponder on it. I’m going home. See you on the Saturday. Busies couldn’t do a
thing. Maybe do three or four a week. Wouldn’t know what hit them. Ponder on it.’

‘Okay.’

‘You still going to be sick?’

‘Probably.’

‘Come on the broo! Sa great life. You can rob banks or anything. Screw Young Socialists. Fight with seance-in-laws. Can’t beat it man.’

‘Good night Natural Leader.’

‘Still going to college and getting married and all that?’

‘Without fail it’s what’s going to happen I think.’

‘Headbanger! Remember and buy me a best man present.’

The door banged shut behind the best man, shortly before John retched the night up.

They stopped outside the hospital gates. He could see the night porter peering through the window trying to identify the girl. The rain pattered relentlessly, although gently, down on the umbrella.

‘I better go in,’ the girl said with a half smile, staring in at the little office.

‘Thought you were allowed till twelve before they closed the gates?’ he asked.

She shrugged without replying and shuffling her feet began humming to herself.

‘Anyway let’s walk up the road a bit where there are no spies.’

‘Oh Danny doesn’t bother.’ She stepped backwards into the shadows, expecting him to follow.

He saw the night porter turn the page of a newspaper with his left hand; he held a tea cup against his cheek with the other. Perhaps she was right. He didn’t appear the least bit interested.

‘Jilly, fancy a coffee?’

‘In your flat I suppose?’ she smiled, but not forlornly.

‘Well it’s only a room. But it’s warm and I’ve got a chair.’

‘That’s not what I mean!’

He turned his coat collar up before replying.

‘Listen, if you know any cafes still open we’ll go there.’

He could not be bothered. What he did want to say was listen why don’t you go in or why don’t you come I’m getting tired and really what’s the diff anyway? But she always had to play these little games all the time.

‘I’m only kidding, Stuart,’ she answered quickly, recognising that tone.

‘Yeah!’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, Jilly. Come on, let’s go and drink coffee. I’m too tired to rape you anyway.’

‘Very funny!’ she laughed.

Stuart had met her at the hospital dance four weeks ago and this was the sixth time they had gone out together. Cinema twice. Pub thrice. This evening Jilly had not finished until after eight, so they had dined in an Indian restaurant, had a few drinks and strolled about. When the rain started they made their way back to the hospital where she lived in. He did not find her tremendously attractive but she appeared to quite like him. They had never had sex together although at the beginning he had tried to persuade her at every opportunity. But now, she noticed his attempts becoming less frequent as were his jokes and funny remarks on the subject. She was half a head shorter than him, dressed quite well if six months behind in style, had short black hair and wore this brown corduroy coat he liked the first time he had seen it; but not the fifth. She had a sharp wee upturned nose. Nineteen years old, kissed with sealed lips and came from Bristol.

‘No females allowed in here you know!’ said Stuart, quietly turning the key in the lock. ‘Under any circumstances!’

Jilly giggled looking up and down the street.

‘I can only stay ten minutes,’ she whispered, peering into the dark, musty-smelling hallway.

He beckoned her to follow and she crept upstairs without glancing back. This was a respectable bachelor-only house wholly maintained by an eighty-eight year old Italian landlady who preferred elderly, retired if possible, gentlemen. She had allowed Stuart in through her husband, who drank in his local, putting a word in. ‘Steady boy,’ he had told her. It was a clean,
quiet house and during the six months he had stayed there he had only twice set eyes on another tenant. There was one other occasion when, shortly after closing time, a person had bumped against his door then fallen upstairs. When he investigated whoever it was had disappeared. He had concluded that the person lived directly above but could not be sure. He paid £3.50 per week for one medium-sized room containing a mighty bed which somewhat resembled his idea of the way an orthopaedic bed would look. It was shaped like a small but steep hill; four feet high at the top and half that high at the bottom. Occasionally he would awaken with his feet sticking out over the end and his head eighteen inches below the flat pillow. An unusual continental quilt covered the bed. The mattress interior seemed to be stuffed with empty potato crisp packets and startling crinkling sounds escaped whenever he turned over. It was extremely comfortable! He had no running water but there was an old marble-topped washing table and an enormous jug and basin. Underneath the table stood an enamel bucket and all three vessels plus the electric kettle were filled daily with fresh water by the landlady. There were neither gas nor electric cooking appliances. Under no circumstances was he allowed to cook even if he did supply his own stove; but he seldom ate out, preferring to buy in cold meat or cheese. Recently he had discovered tinned frankfurters which he emptied into the kettle with one or two eggs. When the water boiled for three minutes, both the sausages and the eggs would be ready to be eaten. Only snag was, apart from the spout being very narrow, that the hole in the kettle was barely 3″ in diameter and this meant having to spear each frankfurter out individually, by fork, which required skill; and occasionally an egg would crack when lowered by spoon and dropped onto the kettle bottom, causing the water to become cobwebby from the escaping egg white. Fortunately the coffee flavour always
seemed unimpaired. He was secretly proud of his ingenuity but could not display it to Jilly as he had neither egg nor frankfurter. Still she did accept the chair, and the coffee. He switched on the gas fire.

‘Very quiet house,’ she said presently.

‘Haunted.’

Jilly smiled her disbelief.

‘You don’t believe me? There’s things go bump in the night here!’

‘I don’t believe you. No.’

‘Okay.’ Sitting facing her on the carpet he began twiddling the knobs of his transistor radio. ‘What’s Luxembourg again?’ he asked.

‘208 meters. If I believed everything you told me I’d go mad or something.’

‘Doesn’t bother me if you don’t want to hear about it.’ He paused. ‘I’m going to tell you anyway.’ He switched off the radio and continued in a low growling kind of stage voice. ‘One dark black winter’s evening just after closing time, around the turn of the century, an aged retired navvy was returning from the boozer . . .’

‘Retired what?’

‘Navvy, and he was still wearing his Wellingtons – was returning from the boozer quietly singing this shanty to himself when he opened the front door and climbed the stairs,’ Stuart paused, pointing to his door, ‘just as he passed this very door to go up to his room he stopped and there at the top of the stairs he saw this death’s head staring at him. Well he staggered back letting out this bloodcurdling scream and toppled downstairs banging into this door on the way to his doom.’

‘Did he?’ asked the girl politely.

‘Yeah really! They say to this day if you climb the stairs occasionally just after closing time you can sometimes see a death’s
head wearing a pair of Wellington boots. I know it’s hard to believe but there it is.’

Jilly stared far above his head.

‘Too much bloody interference at this time of night,’ said Stuart back with the transistor. ‘You want Radio One?’

‘I don’t mind,’ she sang during a chorus.

Why the hell didn’t she go? Sitting there like Raquel Welch! Anyway if she did fancy him surely she’d want to kip up with him – at least for the night, Good God! Still he didn’t have to get up for work so who cared? But if she stayed out too late they’d lock her out and not open up without a steward’s inquiry. Get chucked out the house if Arrivederci Roma found her – or traces.

‘Want another cup of coffee?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Well yes or no?’

‘If you’re having one.’

‘I’m not having one but if you want one well just go ahead and say so eh?’

‘I’m not fussy.’

Jesus why didn’t she get up and go?

‘Plenty of books there if you want a read . . .?’ he gestured vaguely towards the side of the bed where a pile of paperbacks lay.

‘No thanks I’m not much of a reader.’

He poked a strip of newspaper through the grill of the gas fire and lit a cigarette.

‘Did you never smoke?’

‘Yes, quite heavily, but I gave it up last year.’

‘Good for you. I wish . . .’ He lacked the energy to finish the sentence.

‘There’s jobs going in the hospital for porters and storemen.’

‘Are there?’

‘Yes and they earn a good wage. The man you see is a Mr Harvey. They’re desperate for staff.’

Perhaps she only went out with him in an attempt to recruit him for the position of porter. Maybe she worked in Personnel. Office she had said.

‘What song’s that again? It’s nice.’

‘Ten Guitars. I’ve always liked that one,’ she replied. ‘It was only a B-side.’

‘Like the fast ones myself.’

‘You would!’

‘Eh?’

What was this? Note of encouragement? Hint perhaps, after all this time? What the hell was he supposed to do? Had no desire to play around tonight without going the whole road. Very bad on the nerves that. Anyway she didn’t have the brains to drop hints. Didn’t even have the brains to . . .

‘What was that?’ cried the girl.

‘What?’

‘That noise,’ she looked at the door.

‘Ssh, quietly,’ he whispered. ‘Might be the old one creeping about. Or maybe someone going to the lav. Don’t want her to find out.’

‘Oh!’ she replied, relieved.

‘You didn’t believe that death’s head twaddle did you?’

‘Of course not, I’m used to you by now!’

What did she mean by that? He stood up and walked past her to the cupboard, lifted the alarm clock down and wound it. After setting it back he stared at her shoulders as she gazed at the gas fire while humming to herself. Well had to do something; this was getting ridiculous. He stepped over to the chair and kissed the nape of her neck. She did not move. He unbuttoned her blouse down the back. She allowed it to slide off her shoulders and lie behind her on the chair; then she retrieved
it and folding it, placed it neatly by the bed. Meanwhile he fumbled with the hooks on her bra.

‘What d’you think you’re playing at?’ she asked.

‘Taking off your clothes, but I’m stuck.’ Then he discovered the catch.

‘No, I’m not,’ he added.

‘Well I hope you’re enjoying yourself.’

But he had been this far before; once in the alley behind the hospital he had almost succeeded in taking her pants down! He let the bra remain hanging from her shoulders. Moving around to face her, he took both her hands and pulled her to her feet and kissed her. Still unsure but almost allowing himself to believe this was it, he hesitated. Jilly unzipped her skirt and stepping out from it crawled onto the bed and under the quilt. She unconcernedly stretched over and strung her bra over the chair.

‘Never seen one of these before,’ she said unaware of his incredulous stare.

‘Sa continental quilt!’ he answered at last.

Still rather dazed, he undressed down to his socks and pants, and walked across to switch off the light. She giggled.

‘What’s up?’

‘You in your socks and thin legs.’ She laughed again rather shrilly.

‘Lucky I’m not wearing Wellington boots!’ He grinned nervously, shrugged and marched forward.

Stuart had forgotten to change the set time of the clock and so it alarmed at ten o’clock as usual. Recognising the severity of the situation he jumped out of bed immediately and dressed rapidly. The landlady rose at dawn and would be well away cleaning by this time. Fortunately she would not come in: when he left the house in the morning he would leave the
door open and she knew it was then safe to enter but if the door was closed she waited. He told Jilly to hurry. He could imagine the confrontation if the old one were to enter unannounced.