Last Orders (12 page)

She looked at me, blinking.

The world was changing all right, I knew that. I aint unaware. But I said I’ll tell you what the big change is, the change underneath all the change. It aint the Beatles and it aint the Rolling Stones and it aint long hair or short skirts or free milk and baby-stoppers on the National Health. It’s mobility, it’s being mobile. How did you get to here from Blackburn? How did you get to shake off your ma and pa? Time was when the only way you got to travel was in the Army, though not everywhere’s worth the trip, I’m telling you. But watch ’em all on the move now, watch ’em all going places. You listening? Ten years from now the Beatles and the Stones will be old-time music but what they’ll still want is wheels. Wheels. More and more wheels. And I’ll be there to sell ’em, Vince Dodds’ll be right there to sell ’em. I’m in the right trade, the travel trade. So don’t tell me I aint with it.

She looked at me as if she was doing a bit of trading of her own in her head.

She said, ‘Course you are, lover.’

She’d twist the ends of her hair and suck ’em, like a schoolgirl.

I said, ‘If it weren’t for Hitler, Jack would never’ve budged from that shop. But one day Jack’ll come crawling to me, you see.’

She said, ‘Course he will, pet.’

We’d hit the road and head out through the suburbs, like we’d robbed a bank and were on the run.
Just runnin’ scared! Du-du-du-dum!
There was a lay-by out beyond Swanley with a mobile caff where they’d sizzle up bacon waddies and brew tea like it had to be stirred with a dipstick. The cars would whack by and the slipstreams would tug the steam from our mugs and flip her long hair. I’ll always see
her standing by a road. Then we’d find our own little private lay-by somewhere. It was like the car joined in with us. Crazy for it, we’d be. Slippery with it, have to mop down afterwards. Then we’d go for a walk in the woods, across the fields, listen to the birdies, take the air, clock the view. I said – I thought it would impress her, coming from Blackburn, I thought she’d be impressed, it coming from me – ‘They call Kent the Garden of England.’

We come up to the start of the M2 but Vince stays on the A2, through Strood to Rochester. We cross the Medway by the old road bridge, beside the railway bridge. It comes as a surprise, the sudden wide view of the river, like it’s a whole look-out on the world you hadn’t been thinking of, you’d forgotten it was there. Boats, jetties, moorings, mud banks.

Vic says, ‘Tide’s out,’ and looks at his watch. ‘It’ll be coming in at Margate.’

Lenny says, ‘Good thing, I suppose. Considering.’

You can see the castle and the cathedral spire ahead, standing out, like toy buildings set down special.

Vince says, ‘So, anyone know any good pubs in Rochester?’

Vic says, ‘No, but I knew a few once in Chatham.’ Navy man.

Vince says, ‘Memory Lane, eh Vic?’

The weather’s changing, clouds brewing.

We overshoot on the main road then double back, getting lost in the side-streets and the one-way systems. Then we slip into a car park at the foot of the castle hill. Lenny says, ‘I never knew this was a sight-seeing tour.’ Vince says, ‘Everybody out.’ He takes off his shades and pats his hair. I lift up the box so he can get his jacket and he turns and reaches for it. He looks at Lenny as if Lenny might hand it to him but Lenny don’t, then I put the box back on the seat. Then we all get out, stretching and putting on our clobber. It’s nippy after being in the car. The castle looks dry and
bony in the sunshine. Vince opens the boot and takes out a coat. Camel hair.

Then we should all move off but we stay put, loitering, looking at each other, sheepish.

I say, ‘It don’t seem right just to leave him there on the back seat, does it?’

Lenny says, ‘Where d’you think he should go, in the boot?’

I say, ‘I mean, it don’t seem right us going off and just leaving him on his own.’

Lenny shrugs.

Vic don’t say nothing, like it’s not his business any more, it’s not his say-so, now he’s handed over the goods. He gives me a quick sharp look, settling his cap, then he squints up at the clouds in the sky.

Vince says, ‘You’re right, Ray. He should come with us, shouldn’t he?’

He leans in and picks up the box. It’s the first time he’s held it. He tucks it under his arm while he locks the car, then he straightens up with it hugged against his chest. Now he’s holding it, now he’s standing there in that coat with the box, it’s as though he’s in charge, it’s as though he’s got his badge of authority. It was Vic who was in charge, in charge but sort of neutral at the same time, but now it’s Vince.

He says, ‘Okay men, follow me,’ like he’s leading a patrol of marines, and he marches off across the car park. I see Lenny turn his head as if he’s going to spit.

We come out on the high street. It’s not big and bustling like your normal high street. It’s narrow and quiet and crooked and historical and full of lop-sided old buildings. There are people ambling up and down it, aimless, the way tourists walk. It looks like a high street in a picture book, like you shouldn’t be here, walking in it, or like it shouldn’t
be here itself, with the traffic belting along on the A2 close by. Except it was here first.

There’s a fancy grocer’s opposite, the Rochester Food Fayre, the sort that sells funny teas and posh tins of biscuits, and Vince ducks in sudden, leaving us standing. Then he comes out again with a plastic carrier-bag. He’s slipping the box into it but there’s something else already in there, by the look of it. He says, ‘Mandy said we were out of coffee.’ Then we look this way and that and Vince scoots off again as if he can’t abide ditherers. There’s a sign up ahead saying ‘Bull Hotel’ and he heads straight for it, like he’s been meaning to all along. He says, ‘There, gents, this should do us.’ It’s a big old rambling place, with a Carvery and a Grill and a regular bar with snacks. I can see Vince considering the Carvery, like he’s thinking of lashing out special and making us feel like we owe him. Then he back-tracks along the pavement, settling on the bar and snacks. You can see the bridge over the river from the hotel entrance. The high street dips down towards it and the main road, and if you shut your eyes and open them again you can picture how a stage-coach might once have rattled across and up the slope and swung into the yard of the Bull, with the castle looking down just like a Christmas card.

It’s an old coaching inn, tarted up and buggered about. But I don’t make no jokes.

It’s warm and glinty and chattery inside. Vince says, ‘I’ll get ’em,’ before we’re hardly through the door. ‘You take this, Ray.’ He hands me the carrier bag. ‘Grab that table over there. Pints all round and a shortie for you, Vic?’

He pulls out his wallet and steps up to the bar, like everyone round here knows Vince Dodds.

There’s a barmaid with a white blouse and cherry red lipstick.

We go to the table. We hear Vince say, ‘Any grub going, darling?’ He wasn’t ever one for speaking soft but maybe he means us to hear. He cocks his head in our direction. ‘Three old codgers to look after, and one extra who aint eating.’ The barmaid looks our way, puzzled, then back at Vince, as if she’s not sure whether to smile or what. I can’t see Vince’s face but I know he’s looking at her with that special look he has, like he knows he might seem just a bit ridiculous but he’s daring her to make the mistake of thinking he really is.

Like when he said, ‘Wanna do a deal on the yard?’

She reaches over for some menu cards, her face a bit pink. I can hear Vince thinking, ‘Nice jubbies.’

We start on our drinks, then we order our nosh. Then Vic gets in another round. Then the food arrives: jumbo sausage, beans and chips for me and Lenny, steak and chips for Vince, quiche of the day for Vic. I reckon today he should eat meat. The barmaid brings over the plates and stretches across and Vince says, ‘Looks a treat, sweetheart,’ with his face in her armpit, and none of us says a thing. There’s a strand of blonde hair that falls down her cheek like it’s not meant to but it’s meant to at the same time. Then we eat up and drink up and Lenny and I light up ciggies and Lenny gets in a round and it seems like we’ve always known the Bull in Rochester and it’s always known us, and we’re all thinking the same thing, that it’s a pity we can’t just carry on sitting here getting slowly pickled and at peace with the world, it’s a pity we’re obliged to take Jack on to Margate. Because Jack wouldn’t have minded, it’s even what he would’ve wanted for us, to get sweetly slewed on his
account.
You carry on, lads, don’t you worry about me.
If he was here now he’d be recommending it, he’d be doing the same as us.
Forget them ashes, fellers.
Except if he were here now there wouldn’t be no problem, there wouldn’t be no obligation. There wouldn’t be no ashes. We wouldn’t even be here in the first place, half-way down the Dover road.

Lenny says, ‘It’s a crying shame he aint here,’ like Jack was planning on it but something else came up.

‘He’d’ve appreciated it,’ Vince says.

‘He shouldn’t’ve hurried off like he did,’ I say, entering the spirit.

‘Daft of him,’ Lenny says.

Vic’s gone quiet.

‘Crying shame,’ Lenny says.

It’s as though, if we keep talking this way, Jack really will come through the door, any second now, unbuttoning his coat. ‘Well, had you all fooled, didn’t I?’

Then Vic says, like it’s a truth we’re not up to grasping, that has to be broke gently, ‘If he was here, we wouldn’t be, would we? It’s because he’s not that we are.’

‘All the same,’ Lenny says.

‘He’d’ve appreciated it,’ Vince says.

Lenny looks at Vince.

‘If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t be here,’ Vince says. ‘We wouldn’t be here without him,’ and he looks sort of snagged up by his own words. We’re all looking snagged up, like everything means one thing and something else at the same time.

I say, ‘I’ve got to take a leak.’

But it’s not just to take a leak. I find the Gents and I unzip, then I feel my eyes go hot and gluey, so I’m leaking at both ends. It’s cold and damp and tangy in the Gents. There’s two condom machines, one says ‘Glowdom’ and one
says ‘Fruit Cocktail’.
It’s be-kind-to-your-pecker day.
There’s a frosted window with a quarter-light half open so I get a peek of a bit of wall, a bit of roof, a bit of tree and a bit of sky, which isn’t blue any more, and I think for some reason of all the pissers I’ve ever pissed in, porcelain, stainless steel, tarred-over cement, in pubs and car parks and market squares up and down the country, wherever there’s a racecourse to hand. There’s always a frosted quarter-light, chinked open, with a view of the back end of somewhere, innyards, alleyways, with some little peephole out on life. Racecourse towns. It’s when you stand up to piss you can tell how pissed you are. A drink or two helps for putting on a bet. A drink or three buggers your judgement. When I can’t get to sleep I tick off in my head all the racetracks I’ve been to, in alphabetical order, and I see the map of England with the roads criss-crossing. AscotBrightonCheltenham-DoncasterEpsom.

I shake myself out and zip myself up again. I sniff and I run my sleeve across my face. Some other punter comes in, a young feller, but I don’t reckon he sees, or thinks twice if he does. Old men get pissy eyes. He gets out his plonker like a young feller does, like it’s a fully operational piece of machinery.

Well, that’s that over with. Crying’s like pissing. You don’t want to get caught short, specially on a car journey.

But as I head back into the bar and I see them at the table, with the barmaid collecting glasses, nice arse an’ all, and all the bar-room clobber, brass rails, pictures on the wall, of a pub I’ve never been in before and won’t ever be in again, it’s as though I’m looking at them like I’m not here. Like it’s not Jack, it’s me and I’m looking on, afterwards, and they’re all talking about me. HaydockKempton. Like I’m not here but it’s still all there, going on without
me, and all it is is the scene, the place you pass through, like coachload after coachload passing through a coaching inn. NewburyPontefract.

I say, ‘Same again, fellers?’

Vic’s looking at me. He looks like he’s thinking.

Vince says, ‘Not me, Raysy,’ holding up a flat palm, all strict. ‘Unless you want to find another driver. You could get me a coffee. And a half-corona.’

Lenny looks at Vince like he’s going to give a mock salute. He says, ‘And I’ll have a knickerbocker glory.’

It’s always the third drink with Lenny.

I order the drinks and ferry over the pints and Vic’s whisky.

Vic says, ‘Just as well Amy didn’t come, she wouldn’t have planned on a piss-up.’

Lenny says, ‘Is that whisky or tea you’re drinking there then, Viccy?’ He slurps some beer. ‘Jack wouldn’t begrudge us.’ Then he says, ‘All the same.’

Vince says, ‘All the same what?’

Lenny says, ‘He’d’ve appreciated it if his missis had carried out requirements.’

I say, ‘That’s been settled. We’re doing it for her.’

They all look at me as if they’re expecting a speech.

I glug some beer.

The barmaid brings over Vince’s coffee. He looks up and says, smiling, ‘Old ones are the worst, eh gorgeous?’

‘ “For” aint the point,’ Lenny says. ‘ “For” don’t apply. Some things is direct. None of us is next of kin, is we? None of us is close relative. Even Vincey aint close relative.’ And he looks at Vince like he wouldn’t look if he hadn’t had three pints of heavy. Vince is lighting his cigar. ‘Even Big
Boy here aint next of kin, is he? Vincey here aint got no more claim to be here than any of us, have you, Big Boy? Specially as, if you ask me, there wasn’t no love lost in any case, not till Jack was on his last legs. There wasn’t ever no love lost, was there?’ Lenny’s face is all knotted up.

Vince puffs on his cigar. He doesn’t look at Lenny. He pours the milk from the plastic thingummy into his coffee, then he tears the sugar sachet and tips out the sugar, slow and careful, concentrating, stirring all the while with his free hand. It’s like he doesn’t intend talking to any of us again.

Lenny opens his mouth, as if there’s more to come, but something sort of clicks shut in his throat. ‘I’ve got to take a leak an’ all,’ he says. He gets up, sudden, looking around like he’s dizzy. I jerk my thumb in the direction he should take.