Kevin Barry - Dark Lies the Island

‘A bloody suburb, essentially,’ said Everett.

‘Chester’s a regular shithole,’ said Mo.

‘But you’d have to allow Delamere Forest is a nice walk?’ said Tom N.

Eyebrows raised at this, Tom N not being an obvious forest walker.

‘You been lately, Tom? Nice walk?’

Tom nodded, all sombre.

‘Was out for a Christmas tree, actually,’ he said.

This brought gales of laughter. It is strange what comes over as hilarious when hangovers are general. We had the windows open to circulate what breeze there was. Billy Stroud had an earpiece in for the radio news. He winced:

‘They’re saying it’ll hit 36.5,’ he said. ‘Celsius.’

We sighed. We sipped. We made Wales quick enough and we raised our Marston’s to it. Better this than to be stuck in a garden listening to a missus. We meet as much as five nights of the week, more often six. There are those who’d call us a bunch of sots but we don’t see ourselves like that. We see ourselves as hobbyists. The train pulled into Flint and Tom N went on the platform to fetch in some beef ’n’ gravies from the Pie-O-Matic.

‘Just the thing,’ said Billy Stroud, as we sweated over our dripping punnets. ‘Cold stuff causes the body too much work, you feel worse. But a nice hot pie goes down a treat. Perverse, I know. But they’re on the curries in Bombay, aren’t they?’

‘Mumbai,’ said Everett.

The train scooted along the fried coast. We made solid headway into the Marston’s. Mo was down a testicle since the spring. We’d called in at the Royal the night of his operation. We’d stopped at the Ship and Mitre on the way — they’d a handsome bitter from Clitheroe on guest tap. We needed the fortification: when Real Ale Club boys parade down hospital wards, we tend to draw worried glances from the whitecoats. We are shaped like those chaps in the warning illustrations on cardiac charts. We gathered around Mo and breathed a nice fog of bitter over the lad and we joshed him but gently.

‘Sounding a little high-pitched, Mo?’

‘Other lad’s going to be worked overtime.’

‘Diseased bugger you’ll want in a glass jar, Mo. One for the mantelpiece.’

Love is a strong word, but. We were family to Mo when he was up the Royal having the bollock out. We passed Flint Castle and Everett Bell piped up.

‘Richard the Second,’ he said.

We raised eyebrows. We were no philistines at Ale Club, Merseyside branch. Everett nodded, pleased.

‘This is where he was backed into a corner,’ he said. ‘By Bolingbroke.’

‘Boling who?’

‘Bolingbroke, the usurper. Old Dick surrendered for a finish. At Flint Castle. Or that’s how Shakespeare had it.’

‘There’s a contrary view, Ev?’

‘Some say it was more likely Conwy but I’d be happy with the Bard’s read,’ he said, narrowing his eyes, the matter closed.

‘We’ll pass Conwy Castle in a bit, won’t we?’

I consulted my Illustrated AA .

‘We’ll not,’ I said. ‘But we may well catch a glimpse across the estuary from Llandudno Junction.’

There was a holiday air at the stations. Families piled on, the dads with papers, the mams with lotion, the kids with phones. The beer ran out by Abergele and this was frowned upon: poor planning. We were reduced to buying train beer, Worthington’s. Sourly we sipped and Everett came and had a go.

‘Maybe if one man wasn’t in charge of outings and publications,’ he said, ‘we wouldn’t be running dry halfways to Llandudno.’

‘True, Everett,’ I said, calmly, though I could feel the colour rising to my cheeks. ‘So if anyone cares to step up, I’ll happily step aside. From either or.’

‘We need you on publications, kid,’ said John Mosely. ‘You’re the man for the computers.’

Publications lately was indeed largely web-based. I maintained our site on a regular basis, posting beer-related news and links. I was also looking into online initiatives to attract the younger drinker.

‘I’m happy on publications, John,’ I said. ‘The debacle with the newsletter aside.’

Newsletter had been a disaster, I accepted that. The report on the Macclesfield outing had been printed upside down. Off-colour remarks had been made about a landlady in Everton, which should never have got past an editor’s eye, as the lady in question kept very fine pumps. It hadn’t been for want of editorial meetings. We’d had several, mostly down the Grapes of Wrath.

‘So how’s about outings then?’ I said, as the train swept by Colwyn Bay. ‘Where’s our volunteer there? Who’s for the step-up?’

Everett showed a palm to placate me.

‘There’s nothin’ personal in this, lad,’ he said.

‘I know that, Ev.’

Ale Club outings were civilised events. They never got aggressive. Maudlin, yes, but never aggressive. Rhos-on-Sea; the Penrhyn sands. We knew Everett had been through a hard time. His old dad passed on and there’d been sticky business with the will. Ev would turn a mournful eye on us, at the bar of the Lion, in the snug of the Ship, and he’d say:

‘My brother got the house, my sister got the money, I got the manic depression.’

Black as his moods could be, as sharp as his tongue, Everett was tender. Train came around Little Ormes Head and Billy Stroud went off on one about Ceauşescu.

‘Longer it recedes in the mind’s eye,’ he said, ‘the more like Romania seems the critical moment.’

‘Apropos of, Bill?’

‘Apropos my arse. As for Liverpool? Myth was piled upon myth, wasn’t it? They said Labour sent out termination notices to council workers by taxi. Never bloody happened! It was an anti-red smear!’

‘Thatcher’s sick and old, Billy,’ said John Mosely.

‘Aye an’ her spawn’s all around us yet,’ said Billy, and he broke into a broad smile, his humours mysteriously righted, his fun returned.

Looming, then, the shadow of Great Ormes Head, and beneath it a crescent swathe of bay, a beach, a prom, and terraces: here lay Llandudno.

‘1.55 p.m.,’ said Everett. ‘On the nose.’

‘Where’s our exotic dancer?’ teased Mo.

Billy Stroud sadly raised his T-shirt above his man boobs. He put his arms above his head and gyrated slowly his vast belly and danced his way off the train. We lost weight in tears as we tumbled onto the platform.

‘How much for a private session, miss?’ called Tom N.

‘Tenner for twenty minutes,’ said Billy. ‘Fiver, I’ll stay the full half-hour.’

We walked out of Llandudno station and plumb into a headbutt of heat.

‘Blood and tar!’ I cried. ‘We’ll be hittin’ the lagers!’

‘Wash your mouth out with soap and water,’ said John Mosely.

Big John rubbed his hands together and led the way — Big John was first over the top. He reminded us there was business to hand.

‘We’re going to need a decision,’ he said, ‘about the National Beer Scoring System.’

Here was kerfuffle. The NBSS, by long tradition, ranked a beer from nought to five. Nought was take-backable, a crime against the name of ale. One was barely drinkable, two so-so, three an eyebrow raised in mild appreciation. A four was an ale on top form, a good beer in proud nick. A five was angel’s tears but a seasoned drinker would rarely dish out a five, would over the course of a lifetime’s quaffing call no more than a handful of fives. Such was the NBSS, as was. However, Real Ale Club, Merseyside branch, had for some time felt that the system lacked subtlety. And one famous night, down Rigby’s, we came up with our own system — we marked from nought to ten. Finer gradations of purity were thus allowed for. The nuances of a beer were more properly considered. A certain hoppy tang, redolent of summer hedgerows, might elevate a brew from a seven to an eight. The mellow back-note born of a good oak casking might lift an ale again, and to the rare peaks of the nines. Billy Stroud had argued for decimal breakdown, for 7.5s and 8.5s — Billy would — but we had to draw a line somewhere. The national organisation responded badly. They sent stiff word down the email but we continued to forward our beer reports with markings on a nought to ten scale. There was talk now of us losing the charter. These were heady days.