Alan Hunter - Gently in the Sun

‘Give me a glass of bitter.’

Without appearing to look round he was nevertheless taking it in. Fishermen, farm workers, one or two who worked in Starmouth: The Longshoreman was for regulars, people who fitted into their niche. On a trestle table under the window four old fishermen were shuffling dominoes. Round the dartboard they spoke in monosyllables and changed places automatically.

‘Have this one on the house.’

But Gently tendered his coin firmly. The publican, stout and middle aged, gave him a solemn wink as he returned the change.

‘We can’t complain of the weather!’

He leaned confidentially on his massive elbows.

‘If there’s anything you want to know… but I’d sooner it was in the back room. I try to please everyone. That’s the tricky part of pub business.’

Gently grunted indefinitely and settled his hip against the bar.

The hush which marked his arrival had passed, though the conversation was perhaps quieter than before. One quickly became aware of different groups among the patrons. The fishermen, in particular, stuck very much together. The dart players were largely farm workers, those round the bar from town. In a corner by himself sat the Keep Going’s owner; he smoked twist in a clay pipe, taking slow, measured puffs.

‘That’s Esau — Esau Dawes.’

The publican had followed his glance.

‘You’ve seen his boat, haven’t you? It’s a hard one to miss! That’s Jack Spanton, his mate, the young fellow having a joke. They think the world of that boat, it’s like it was a human being to them.

‘Then there’s Josh Ives, the short ’un. Him and Aaron Wright are mates. They got blown up with a mine, which is where Josh got his limp from.’

‘On the left it’s Peero Palmer — you’ll maybe hear them call him “Dutchy”. Took his boat across to Holland, he did, and never came back till five years later.’

‘Who’s the one they’re trying to shut up?’

‘Him?’ The publican looked uneasy. ‘Don’t pay any attention! It’s Bob Hawks of the Boy Cyril. But he went queer years ago — which is saying something, when it comes to fishermen. They aren’t ordinary people like you and me.’

It was the angry-eyed man whom Gently had seen talking to the reporters. Now, seemingly the worse for drink, he was angrier than ever. Every once in a while his voice would rise above the general hubbub, and his mates, who were soberer, could do nothing to stop him.

‘There isn’t a man among you…’

‘Keep you quiet, Bob!’

‘… not one, I say…’

‘You’ve had too much into you.’

For a little while they could drown him but always he broke through again. His voice was hard and strident and full of uncertain accusation.

‘He doesn’t usually get drunk,’ muttered the publican apologetically. ‘He’s too mean as a rule — he watches every penny. Some of them now… look at Esau over there! He gets drunk every night and you can’t tell him from sober.’

Gently finished his glass and the publican promptly refilled it. He was sticking to Gently as though to give him a personal sponsorship. From time to time he was summoned away to replenish other glasses, but always he hurried back to plant his elbows by the silent detective.

‘There’s always a lot said when a thing like this happens. A couple of pints — you know how it is! But they don’t mean any harm by it, that’s what I say. They come here to let off steam and to work it out of their systems.’

‘Who’s the mate on the Boy Cyril?’

‘Abby Pike — that’s him lighting his pipe. Another rum bloke! He’s been married three times. During the war he went mine-sweeping and got a couple of bullets in him.’

Was it his imagination or had the atmosphere really become more tense? During the last few minutes, he thought, the various groups had shrunk further away from each other. Those clustered round the bar had got their backs turned to the rest; they were discussing a make of car with a conscious deliberation. At the dartboard there was silent attention, scarcely a word even being exchanged. And the fishermen had contracted their knot — only Dawes puffed on in oblivion.

‘None of you seem to realize…’

The tipsy fisherman’s voice rose again. His drinking had made it unsteady but the actual words came clearly enough.

‘… one point of view, that’s your whole trouble! One point of view

… no feeling at all…’

‘Go and see to your nets, Bob.’

‘It’s the truth… and you know it…’

‘Can’t you shut him up, Abby?’

‘… you don’t like to hear it!’

The publican juggled clumsily with a couple of tankards. Beer slopped into the drip pan and made a river along the bar.

‘If ever there’s anything to mob about here!’

He grabbed up a dishcloth to restore the situation.

Over at the trestle table they had finished their game of dominoes and one old gentleman was muttering to the others. Dawes’s mate, Jack Spanton, had pulled out a mouth organ. He was playing it with a good deal more brio than feeling.

‘… that girl, I say!’

Now Hawks was having to shout, and his eyes, dark and spiteful, were darting towards Gently.

‘None of you cares a damn — laugh, it’s all you can do! And what are they doing about it… nothing… stand there drinking beer!’

‘What are you doing yourself, Bob?’

‘… stand there, I say!’

There was a storm of nervous laughter during which Pike tugged at Hawks’s sleeve. One or two of them, taking the cue, began singing raggedly with the mouth organ. The publican bawled for clean glasses, ignoring a trayful that stood under his nose.

‘She meant a lot to somebody.’

The note had changed to one of pathos.

‘Don’t you ever think? That girl was someone’s daughter, I tell you! How would you like it… put yourself in his place. And her mother — think of that! Her mother… didn’t she have one too?’

His voice broke absurdly in alcoholic grief. Tears ran down his thin cheeks, the corners of his mouth twitched downwards. Yet somehow he escaped being funny, this old man weeping into his beer. He was like a ham actor whose sham sentiments revealed a real tragedy. The long, bitter face seemed a picture traced by ancient suffering.

‘… little sister… brother perhaps. You aren’t to know who she’s left behind. And what do you care, any of you? Not a dashed thing! All you can think about… isn’t it the truth? She’s dead… lay there strangled… and that’s all you can think about!’

He drew a sleeve across his mouth and then gulped down some more beer. For a moment it looked as though the lachrymose vein would continue. But instead, he took a couple of belligerent steps towards the bar.

‘And I ask you again… what are they going to do about it? Where are these blessed policemen who ought to be on the job? Here’s one… just look at him. Holding up the bar! It isn’t his daughter, so what does he care? Holding up the bar, and listening to every mortal word.’

It was useless singing any longer, Hawks had gone too far for that. Swaying slightly on his feet, he was menacing Gently with his empty tankard. Spanton’s mouth organ clattered to the floor. The dart players ceased to throw their darts. Up and down the crowded bar there was a moment of bated, watchful silence.

And then, from Esau’s corner, came the scrape of a table pushed aside. Sparing a glance from the threatening Hawks, Gently saw the big man get to his feet. There was nothing hurried about it. Esau’s movements were slow and gentle. Taking all the time in the world, he settled a sea cap on his white head.

‘Esau… you let me be!’

Hawks’s tone was suddenly apprehensive. He stumbled back a pace and let the tankard fall to his side.