Martin Edwards: All the Lonely People

The keyboard player and drummer in the background burst into life with a Lennon and McCartney number. The people at the tables started clapping and someone cheered. A woman swept on to the stage, microphone in hand, singing about all the lonely people.

For Harry, her sound belonged to the distant past and the pop music of his youth when once or twice she had made it to the lower reaches of the record charts. Sixties ballads had always appealed to him and he still had an Angie O’Hare album somewhere at home. The song brought Brenda Rixton back to mind. Lack of companionship must cause her to contrive their regular meetings in the corridor or lift at Empire Dock. Where the lonely people all come from, he thought, matters less than where they find to go. And, suddenly, he felt Liz’s failure to turn up as keenly as a nettle sting.

Angie O’Hare took a bow and as her head rose again, for a second he fancied that he saw a glimpse of sadness in her sapphire eyes, as though she too identified with the lyric. But within moments he realised that he must have been mistaken, for a smile of triumph spread across her face as she said, “Thank you all so very much,” and started talking about the next number that she was going to sing. Feeling cheated, Harry reached for a cigarette and looked away once more.

The drinkers’ queue had thinned and he traced a path towards the serving blonde. She was lying to a tall, tanned man in a slickly tailored dinner jacket whom Harry took to be the manager.

“Froggy? He only arrived half an hour ago, poor lamb. His wife’s sick and they’ve whipped her into the Royal. He shouldn’t really have come at all, but he didn’t want to let you down.”

“Do me a favour.” The man tugged at the ends of his dark moustache. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, but you could tell from the gesture that he thought himself handsome. Even the barmaid, concentrating on her trivial deceit, let her eyes linger on her boss a little longer than necessary before she spoke again.

“Honest,” she insisted, “you only have to ask him. But mind what you say, he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

Worthy of an Oscar, Harry thought. He coughed and shuffled, drawing attention to the fiver in his hand. Ignoring him, the manager said, “He’ll be under more pressure if I find that he’s been spinning me a yarn.” But he turned away as he spoke.

After being served, Harry stayed by the counter, sipping the beer and telling himself that Liz would not be coming now. Why she had bothered to summon him here was anyone’s guess. It would have made more sense to listen to Jim’s advice and steer clear, but where Liz was concerned, logic was as scarce as love in a brothel. Today had been reminiscent of their marriage as a whole, as he twitched at the end of whatever strings she cared to pull.

From the stage, Angie O’Hare was crooning the chorus of Don’t Make Me Over. He looked around the concert room. Everywhere, men and women were pairing off, like chess players easing through a well-tried opening game. Through the crowd, he could see the man called Froggy deep in conversation with a customer who had his back to Harry. Spinning another tall story, no doubt. But then the customer’s girlfriend, a sulky blonde with a tart’s wiggle, interrupted them and drew her man aside. Froggy resumed his desultory collection of disused glasses, casting a surreptitious glance at the manager as he did so. Harry saw the little man relax visibly as he spotted his boss at the rear of the room, standing with arms folded, looking abstractedly towards the stage.

Angie was in full flow: no matter how many times she had wrapped herself around the lyric, she still managed to give it everything. Harry could vaguely remember fancying her when she was in her prime. Women had been a mystery to him then. Come to that, they still were. But tonight, in a shimmering silk dress slashed from the waist and with her auburn hair fashionably frizzed, she looked as good as ever. There was a strength there, a sense of power, that he found as attractive as the curves of her body. Unexpectedly, he experienced his first stirrings of desire for her that he could recall since long-ago schooldays and when the number spiralled to its climax, he found himself applauding with the rest of the Ferry crowd.

Breathing hard, she inclined her head in acknowledgment, and this time Harry could detect no hint of anguish in her eyes. Softly, she said, “Tonight is very special for me, so I’d like to dedicate this next song to the man in my life.” She sent a secret smile into the sea of faces. “I sang it to him on the night we met. It means so much to me — and, I hope, to you.”

Absurdly, it was as if for Harry the words had broken a momentary spell when Liz was forgotten and for an instant the singer was in tune with him. The keyboard player struck up with the opening chords of The Look of Love and Harry started to edge towards the door. Liz would not be seen in the Ferry Club tonight.

On the way out he felt a hand brush against his leg. He glanced round and found himself looking at the grinning face of a woman in an unflattering tight red frock. She might have been any age between twenty and forty. Her freckled face was as used as an old bus ticket and somehow familiar.

“Looking for company, darling?”

Harry paused, trying in vain to place her in his memory. At the sight of his hesitation, she said, “No need to be shy. Mine’s a vodka and lime. Or — we could take a walk if you like. I’m not too fussed about her voice, are you?”

Bony fingers dug into his arm. Decisively, he shook his head and said with a rueful grin, “Sorry, love. Not tonight.” Or any night, please God.

“You don’t remember me, do you? I’m Trisha. Peanuts Benjamin is my friend.”

Of course. He had defended her on a soliciting charge eighteen months ago. Result: a fine, paid off no doubt by her going straight back on the streets again. As far as he could recall, she had still been in her teens at that time, but women aged rapidly in Trisha’s business. He said hello and asked how she was.

“All right. You know. I’m having a night off, as a matter of fact. Peanuts had to sort out some bother at the Ludo Club. Pity, we was going to celebrate him getting off. In court, I mean. You did a good job, he’s really made up.”

“I’ll get you that vodka and lime.”

“Don’t bother, I was only messing. Anyway, I’m sick of this place. Might as well catch a taxi and go back.”

They went outside together. One of the men on the door treated Harry to a knowing smirk. Trisha stuck her tongue out at the bouncers and put her arm in Harry’s, a gesture of camaraderie rather than a come-on. For him, it was a relief to get back into the open air.

As they walked down the road, looking for a cab she said, “So what are you doing in the Ferry? It’s not where you expect to find posh solicitors, a dive like that.”

“Long story,” he said. “Would you believe I was just looking for my wife?”

“Oh yeah?” She giggled in incredulous merriment. “And I’m an Avon lady. Never mind, you didn’t meet anyone this evening, but there’s always tomorrow.”

A black Corporation taxi pulled up in front of them. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “Goodnight, Trisha. Give my best to Peanuts.”

She climbed into the cab and then lowered the window. “Call him if you want. He’ll fix you up, no problem. Specially after what you did for him in the court today.”

He smiled without answering and waved her off. Left on his own, he suddenly felt overcome by exhaustion. Drink and disappointment had made his limbs heavy and his every movement a battle against fatigue. Trying without success to think about work rather than his wife, he dragged himself back once more along the city streets that led to the Empire Dock.