Scratch (24 page)

‘Yeah,
ya
fucker!’ Natalie and the other girl shouted in unison.

I threw my jacket into the office, pulled a pint, and poured a drink. Then another and another and another …

I hadn’t been so stressed or panicked or busy or exhilarated since the last Friday I worked behind a bar almost ten years earlier.

It was terrifying but telling; it was horrible but hilarious; it was scary but easy; it was the biggest rush I’d felt in years.

We ran out of pint glasses half a dozen times within the first two hours; we ran out of ice every fifteen minutes; we ran out of lemon wedges every twentieth gin and tonic; we ran out of patience every time some fuckwit asked for a cocktail.

It was the ultimate juxtaposition of bile and brilliance, vileness and vindication, which I’d forgotten all about. It was why I loved bar work. Some customers were horrific, and some were lovely; some orders were a doddle, and some were a piss-taking nightmare. A till empty of change was the enemy; a keg spurting its last bit of foam before dying was the enemy; the reams of baying drunkards shouting for attention were the enemy.

The perfectly poured pint was your friend; the order you knew the prices to and could add up in your head was your friend; the patient customer who smiled and said ‘thanks’ was your friend.

Most of all, the people struggling through the same shit as you and still smiling were your friends.
Colleague
is a rubbish word; it doesn’t cut it in catering.

All those people wearing suits and shouting patronisingly at us were out with their
colleagues
. I was standing toe to toe with my
compatriots
. These three, noble fighters I was battling alongside were
in my team
. We didn’t work together, we
fought
together. And, by ensuring we had each other’s backs covered, we
won
together. I’d forgotten about that closeness, I’d, I’ll admit it now, missed
it. It was in fact quite beautiful. I’d liken it to medical staff in an emergency room, maybe firemen, or possibly even soldiers in a war zone; it’s that level of closeness.

‘Hi Jim, I’m Lucy. I thought I’d introduce myself seeing as you haven’t bothered,’ said the barmaid who wasn’t Natalie.

‘Huh?’

The bar had died down a bit. It was almost eight, and all the married suits had gone home to be sick on their children and all the single ones had gone home to take their suits off before coming back out. That only left the ones who were having affairs, and they were never any bother. They huddled in the corners, cowering from the light as they pawed each other under the table, only scuttling out of the darkness to order the occasional cosmopolitan.

‘I’m Lucy, hello,’ Lucy said again.

‘Sorry, shit, sorry.
Hiya
. Nice to meet you, seeing as you’ve been saving my arse for the last two hours,’ I said. Lucy had spotted and saved me from three overcharges, two undercharges and one potentially embarrassing (and exceedingly patronising) misunderstanding I had over a customer’s query as to whether or not we sold
Pils
behind the bar.

Lucy was very blonde, but not in a Paris Hilton way. She was as tall as I was and (it goes without saying) a lot younger - twenty, if that. She was exactly the type of girl randy old men drooled over, and had a sparkle in her eye that said she knew it. Hopefully I hadn’t reached the ‘randy old man’ stage, just yet.

It’s a disgrace that the hospitality industry is second only to the fashion world (and the music industry, and the acting profession, and probably a few others) when it comes to extreme bias regarding the physical appearance of those it employs (no matter how much they say it isn’t true). There are two sure ways to get a job in catering - you either have lots of experience, talent and stamina while being willing to take orders from and serve people Archbishop Tutu would have a hard job seeing the good in, or you look like Lucy.

Even more shocking, this edict is applied far more stringently to girls than guys, hence the fact I had managed to get a job. Very occasionally, you would come across someone who was both, like Paula, but that was rare. Sammy, though, had always been an excellent judge when it came to hiring staff (Kate being an exception), and, having seen her at work, it looked like he’d found another star in Lucy. Natalie, too, had more than pulled her weight and Mark was a definite pro. If this chain had a weak link it was me.

‘No worries,’ Lucy said. ‘You’ll get the hang of it. You did okay, considering.’

‘Considering what?’

‘That, you know, you’re new.’ Somehow, I sensed this wasn’t what she had really been thinking.

‘And old?’

‘What? No, not at all,’ she said, a little too quickly. ‘What are you, twenty-five?’

‘Thirty-three.’

She attempted to look shocked. ‘Really? I’d never have guessed.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, thanks for trying.’

‘Sorry. You’re only a few years younger than my dad, how mental is that?’

‘Don’t. The last time I worked in a pub I only had to guess if someone was younger than me to know if I should ask for ID. Now I have to decide if they’re young enough to be my child.’

‘Aw, cheer up,’ Lucy said. ‘How offended would you be if I called you Uncle Jim?’

‘You know, Lucy, you seem like a very nice girl but I think I’m going off you.’

‘Right, so it’s Jim the grumpy uncle, then.’

‘I’m going to stop talking now,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘It could be worse. We call Sammy
Grandpa Sam
.’

I laughed. ‘To his face?’

‘No chance.’

Mark came out of the office. ‘I’m all for teambuilding,’ he said, ‘but we’re going to be heaving again in about half-an-hour. What are the chances of the glass shelves and fridges being full by then?’

‘Poor to non-existent would be my assessment,’ I replied.

‘Why not have a go at proving yourself wrong, mate, eh?’

‘
Yessir
.’ Back to work it was.

When Mark was out of earshot, Lucy said, ‘We call him Victor
Meldrew
.’

‘And what about Kate?’

‘That’s easy,’ Lucy said. She turned to Natalie, who was filling a cooler with bottles of beer. ‘Uncle Jim wants to know what we call Kate, Nat.’

‘Daisy,’ Natalie said without looking up.

‘Daisy?’ I said.

‘Daisy the lazy cow,’ Lucy replied.

‘Ah.’

It took until I was halfway through washing the legions of dirty glasses before I thought about Paula again. That’s another beauty of bar work - when it’s busy you don’t have time to think about
anything
. The down side is that, when you
do
remember something you’d been worrying about earlier, it smacks you in the face like a whale’s tail.

I told myself one missed phone call didn’t mean anything, but I didn’t believe me. Surely she must have realised how fragile a grasp I had on, well, everything? Barring a medical emergency of some sort, what possible reason could she have for not calling, other than figuring out what she’d said was a huge mistake? Then I panicked that there
had
been some sort of medical emergency, and hoped to Christ she was okay. But I wasn’t that lucky. She wasn’t dead or otherwise incapacitated, the truth of the matter could only be that Paula Fraser had told me she loved me, and then changed her mind. That was
horrible
.

‘So, how was the gorgeous Paula Fraser then?’ A voice from behind me said. It was Terry, obviously.

‘She, just
was
.’ I said, turning round.

‘Did you have champ and mutton for dinner?’

‘Have you contracted xenophobia without telling me?’

‘Not at all, I’m merely a furtherer of
outdated
stereotypes. I see it as a calling, more than anything.’

‘Fair enough. Not sure if
furtherer
is a word, though.’

‘Whether it is or not, I’m not planning on being able to pronounce it for much longer. A pint of cooking lager and a pineapple
Breezer
, please.’

I was confused. Even if Terry had decided to have a round and a half night to himself a Bacardi
Breezer
was an odd choice (especially pineapple). ‘Are you sure?’

‘Ah, Jim. You have assumed I’m alone, but you’re wrong. The cursed
Breezer
isn’t for me; my companion is merely visiting the facilities.’

Although faux formality was a common feature when Terry and I got drunk enough for it to seem funnier than it was, for Terry to be using it sober meant he was nervous. This knowledge, coupled with his request for a hideous travesty of a drink and my vast experience of his fictional sexual exploits with women over the years could lead to only one conclusion: he had finally accepted the truth about himself. Thank God! And all it had taken was a wee promotion to give him the confidence he needed. Who knew?

‘Mate,’ I said. ‘I’m dead chuffed for you. So who is h—’

‘
Hiya
, Jim.’ Veronica from the office sidled up to Terry and nuzzled against him. ‘How’s that smoking jacket?’

‘Ronni, hi,’ I said, off balance. ‘Eh, the jacket’s great, thanks.’

‘Good stuff. Is that my drink?’ She pointed at the
Breezer
.

‘It is indeed, my good woman,’ Terry said, sliding the bottle in front of her. He wasn’t just nervous, I realised. He was
shitting
himself. Although I felt sorry for him and worried that he had taken lying to himself to a completely new level, this was no reason not to noise him up a bit.

 
‘So, is this a date?’ I asked.

Terry’s eyes pleaded with me to be gentle, but it was Ronni who spoke.

‘It certainly is,’ she said. ‘I finally plucked up the guts to ask him out.’ She gazed at Terry with a huge, besotted grin.

‘Right, good for you.’ That was at least better than Terry instigating the charade. Still, it wasn’t likely to end happily for Ronni either way. I felt torn between sympathy for the poor girl and fear about what her Uncle Jamie might do to Terry when the truth came out. I found myself hoping Terry would make a tit of himself early in the evening and put her off, nipping things in the bud before they got going. I took comfort in knowing Terry was more than capable of making a monumental tit of himself with little or no assistance from circumstance.

‘Yeah,’ Terry said, sweat appearing above his top lip. ‘With you gone I had no one to have lunch with and Ronni and I ended up, eh, spending more time together at work.’

Ronni gave Terry’s arm a squeeze. ‘He’s my new boss.’

‘Ah, that’s sweet.’ Again, worry about Terry was no reason to stop getting a dig in. ‘You make a lovely couple. Just make sure it’s you who sits on his knee, Ronni,’ I said. ‘Try it the other way round and you’ll almost certainly be killed.’

‘Aye, cheers, mate,’ Terry said, blushing.

‘Oh shush, you,’ Ronni said, reaching across the bar and slapping my arm. ‘He’s cuddly.’

‘So how
did
last night go?’ Terry was clearly trying to deflect the pressure back my way. It worked.

‘Another time, mate. I need to get back to work.’

Terry looked at me for a moment, his expression changing to one of concern, or as close as he got, anyway. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Yeah, long story.’

‘Let’s get a table, Terry,’ Ronni said.