How To Choose a Sweetheart (12 page)

“Hello.”

“Think we were ever that young, Bill?” He points at Max with his razor – it would make Max nervous if he didn’t know his host better.

“Course we was, George.”

“We was quite a crowd back then.” George squares his shoulders and glances at his reflection.

“Best looking lads north of the river.”

“Look at the youngster,” George says. “He don’t believe us.”

Max lights a cigarette and laughs. It’s one of the great things about having a haircut at George’s place, being able to smoke while you’re waiting. That and the fact that he’s the best barber Max has ever come across.

George stops with the razor and points over to a photograph of a suited-and-booted man that’s pinned over by the door. It’s old and shows a clean cut man who might easily be mistaken for a gangster. Or George Raft.

“That was my kid brother,” George says. “Remember how the ladies flocked after ‘im?”

“Not ‘alf. Mind you, he wasn’t the only one.” He gives a wink to the old barber and then checks out his new look.

“Keep it down.” George motions to the back door. “Wouldn’t want the old dear getting upset in her condition.”

It’s too late. A grating voice comes from upstairs. “I don’t remember having to do much chasing to catch up with you, love.”

George waves the statement off. “Don’t listen to her. Her memory isn’t what it was. Nor are the mammaries now I come to think of it. Here, have you seen anything of Ken?  He’s normally regular as clockwork and I ain’t talking about his bowels neither.”

“He was robbed not so long back, didn’t you hear?  Some kids knocked ‘im over and roughed ‘im up a bit. He says they even filmed it on their phone. Took his wallet and his shopping.”

“Bastards.” George looks angry. He stands and puts his hands on his hips.

“They wouldn’t have touched him when he was their age. He couldn’t half box.”

“Always a good man to have on your side. Had a few tricks up his sleeve an’ all. The kind of thing the Marquis of Queensbury wouldn’t even have dreamed of.”

George puts the razor down on the counter and picks up a cloth. He sets about wiping Bill down with one hand and pulls the cover off with the other.

Soon as he’s done, he hands over a brush for Bill’s suit.

“Just shows,” Bill says as he gets rid of the hair from his jacket sleeve. “We’re none of us what we once was.”

“Know what I always say Bill?” He probably does. “Breathe in then breathe out and that’s all we can do. It’s the good lord who’ll take us when he’s ready.” He lifts up a mirror and Bill uses it to check out the back of his head. “Smashing job. I’ll be on a promise looking like this.”

“You and me both,” George says.

The screech comes down from upstairs again. “I’ll promise not to kick your backside is all.”

The barber sets about wiping the hair from the leather seat. Bill hands over a note while he wipes his neck and goes over to the hat-stand to pick up his hat.

George picks up some change from the box.

“Keep it,” says Bill. “Can’t take it with you.”

“God bless Bill. Regards to Brenda.”

Bill leaves the shop and the bell rings twice. Another couple of angels.

Max walks over and takes a seat. He sinks into the cushions and feels immediately comfortable. His reflection is looking good – clean skin, nice colour, smiling eyes. 

George drops his tip into a box and picks up the sheet which he throws skilfully over Max then tucks it in around his neck.

Before he starts, he relights his cigar and takes in a long drag. When he’s done, he picks up the scissors, gives a couple of phantom cuts in the air and asks for instruction.

“Just a tidy up. Not too much off the top.” His quiff’s at optimum length just now and has been trained to sit where it is like some pedigree Labrador.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple of months, Max. What’s occurring?”

“I’ve got a mate who’s been giving me a chop every now and then.”

“What’s he by trade?  A butcher?”

“Works in computers. I suppose he could be a hacker.”

George laughs and sets to cutting. “To what do I owe the honour?  Is it love or have you got a job interview?”

“I wouldn’t get done up just for a job.”

“Love it is then.”

“And this time, I think it’s the one.” He’s just bigging it up, like he does with all of his barber’s shop conversations, but he’s still surprised by his choice of words.

“When I met the wife I knew it was big time. And it got bigger and bigger. So did she.”

“But never as big as your mouth George.” It’s the squawk of his Mrs again. She must get to hear every word.

“Didn’t you say you had shopping to do?” George calls back.

“I can pop out any time,” she says.

“Listen George.” There goes his Tony Blair mouth again. “You’ve been around these parts for a good while.”

“All our lives, mate. Know it like the back of me ‘and.”

“Ever come across a Mr Evans?”

George looks into the mirror and wrinkles up his face. “You got a first name to go with that?”

Evans is as close to first name terms as they’ve come. “No first name. He’s got to be seventy if he’s a day. Lives over by the disused railway tracks. Piano teacher.”

“Evans? Evans?” George says the words out loud as if it will help him think. “Nothing springs to mind.”

The old lady enters from the back. She’s a large woman who carries her weight like a goblin. Her feet barely leave the floor as she walks. Her overcoat’s a shabby grey and she’s carrying a few empty shopping bags and a handbag.

“You remember any Evans, Doris?”

“Wasn’t that Taffy’s name?”

“Taffy Evans!  Has to be.”

“Now there was an ‘andsome bloke for you,” Doris says.

“’Andsome, but a bit strange.”

“How do you mean, strange?”

“Don’t listen to ‘im,” Doris says. “He’s just jealous. There was nothing wrong with Taffy, he was just a bit shy. Always reading and playing the piano. He broke a few hearts, he did.”

“He was good an’ all. Used to play down at the dance hall.”

“We looked a picture in them days,” Doris says.

They’ve gone all glassy eyed, like they’re about to go off down memory lane. There’s no time for such a luxury – he’ll only get five minutes in the hot-seat. “Remember anything about him?”

“That was a sad tale,” George says. “You tell him, Doris.”

“Well, he always had big ideas. Always talking about leaving and playing piano in all the countries of the world. And then one day, he left. Just like that.”

“Took off just before he was about to go on his National Service.”

“And he ended up playing with some real stars. We saw his picture in the paper that time.”

The idea of Evans and the stars doesn’t feel right, not with him living in his tumbledown cottage the way he does. “If you saw the man I’m thinking of now...”

“Life’s a funny thing,” George interrupts. “It can take you wherever it wants whenever it wants. Like I say, breathe in...”

“Breathe out,” Doris finishes, “that’s all you can hope to do.” She looks sad when she says it, not just about being fat and old, but touched by something from far away or long gone. “Still. It don’t always seem fair the way it chooses.”

“Nobody said things should ever be fair,” a barber’s philosophy being a bit like that of a taxi-driver’s.

“Shut it dear. You’ll be giving the boy nightmares.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t found out for myself.”

“Well I hope you never have to find it out like old Taffy.”

“How do you mean?”

All this standing seems to have done for her legs. She steps back and sits down on a couple of the customers’ chairs. “Well I don’t know for sure. What I heard was that it was going like a dream. He got to play all around Europe just like he’d said he would.” She takes out her cigarettes and lights up before carrying on. “Then he started to play some swanky place in Paris. And fell in love. The most beautiful woman in town, I heard it. A ballerina from Russia or Spain or somewhere.”

George leaps in. “A ballerina from Russia or Spain who was already married to some big producer type.”

“Some guy who made his fortune during the war.”

“Not the sort of man you’d want to meet in a dark alley if you get my drift.”

The cigarette and the memory seem to have brought life back to the old dear. She’s waving her arms and talking faster by the second. “When the guy found out his wife was having an affair, he weren’t a happy bunny. Story goes he caught them together in some restaurant. Went for Taffy with a cutthroat razor.”  George acts it out with his pair of scissors. “Only the beautiful bird got in the way. Got caught right across the jugular. Taffy went crazy. Beat the bloke to death with his bare hands. By the time the gendarmes pulled him off, the girl had gone and shuffled off this mortal coil an’ all.”

It kind of makes sense. Max’s stomach churns like a butter maker. “My God.”

“His reputation was ruined.”

“They sent him down for a while, but he didn’t get life on account of it being a crime of passion or something.” Doris sighs. “He was so romantic.”

“But his heart was broken.”

“And when the husband’s connections got on to things, so were his fingers.”

“His whole life ruined in one evening.”

Max feels sick. The old lady just keeps on. “That’s what people said, anyway. After that, well, we always thought he’d croaked it.”

“How terrible.” Max shakes his head and gets a nick from the scissors in the process.

“Keep still, son.”

“You know where he is now, you say.”

Max shakes his head again, this time without getting nicked. “No. I don’t think it can be the same guy.” Something tells him it would be best if Mr Evans could keep his life as it is. Quiet and private, the way he seems to want it.

“You never know,” the old lady says, pushing herself up onto her feet. “Give him my regards if you see ‘im. I’m off. Chops all right for tea love?”

“And let’s push the boat out to celebrate the return of the prodigal here. Grab a couple of bottles of beer to go with them.”

She waddles over to the barber and kisses him. Even though Max gets to see the long grey hairs that grow from her upper lip getting in on the act, he still warms to the moment.

George holds up a mirror for Max to see. It’s near perfect.

Next George picks up the razor to finish off and Max gets a flashing image of a restaurant in Paris into his mind, full of blood and noise. The razor scratches against his skin and the urge to rush round and give Evans a hug fills his body.

M
ax and Chris are in a pool hall, standing at a table sizing up the state of play. There are only a couple of other games on the go.

Max chalks the tip of his cue. “I’m taking her to the Phoenix again tomorrow night.”

“What’s playing?”

He takes a moment before answering, lining up the cue-ball with the yellow ball at the far end of the table. “All About Eve and Only Angels Have Wings.” He takes his shot and the yellow rattles about in the jaws of the pocket before rebounding back into the pack.

Chris gets close to Max. “Is there any chance we could make it a foursome?”

“What? You and Angela?”

“I’d really appreciate it. I can’t seem to get the ball rolling that’s all.”

“That’s not like you.” 

“I’m nearly in there.”  Chris hits the cue-ball and plants the red ball into the far pocket as if to underline the point.

“What about those lines you’re so proud of?”

“I respect her too much for all of that nonsense.” It’s like a new Chris has taken the place of the old one. A robot, maybe. Max might have a Stepford bachelor on his hands.

“Then you’re on. Provided it’s all right with Cath.”

Chris leans down to take his shot. The white ball misses everything, rattles around the cushions and knocks the black which drops down the near-left hole. He smashes the butt of the cue into the ground and everyone turns to look his way.

“Brilliant,” he shouts. “I owe you.” He shows his open palm to let everyone in the room know that there’s no harm done. “Best of five?”

“Set them up and I’ll get us more coffee.”

The counter at the back of the room’s more like a kitchen than a professional catering setup. A girl with overly long nails that have been painted blue fills two mugs from the kettle and passes them over. She flutters her false eyelashes and tilts her head to one side. “Haven’t seen much of you lately,” she says.

“I’ve had a few things going on.”

“I thought we had a few things going on, too.” It’s true that they’d had a snog or two after the pubs closed a while back and that she was a very good kisser. Not that they were ever going to be serious.

“Well, like I said...” He picks up a couple of flapjacks from the plate on the counter, drops the correct change into the girl’s hand and picks up the mugs.

The girl tuts and nods her head. “Milk and sugar are where they always were. And so am I.”

Max gets back to Chris as quickly as he can manage.

The balls have been neatly set on the table and Chris breaks off. “Do you believe all that stuff about your Mr Evans?”

Max puts everything down on the round table next to where they’re playing, managing to spill half the tea before he’s done. He picks up the cue and tries to make it look like he had a misspent youth. He pots a red, then another and another. “Most of it makes sense,” he says when he takes a moment to chalk up.

“Not to me it doesn’t.”

“If you met him, you’d understand.”

“All seems a bit farfetched to me.”

Max settles back at the table and knocks two reds in with the one shot. It never happens like this. He rarely pots more than two in a row, let alone at the same time. When he bends down again, lines up the ball and warms up the cue, it’s like his elbow has been oiled. “It explains a lot.” The red that he hits rebounds from the cushion and rolls into the centre pocket. No way on earth he meant to do it and no way in a million years could he do it again. He looks around to see if anyone else has noticed his moment as Eddie Felson. Nobody’s watching.

“Why he doesn’t like you so much you mean.”