James Kelman - An Old Pub Near the Angel

Charles stepped out of the queue and tapped the fellow on the shoulder. ‘Hoy Mick. That’s one helluva smell to make in a public place you know.’

‘Ah bejasus,’ sighed the Irishman, ‘it’s that bloody Guinness Jock. Sure I can’t help it at all.’

‘Terrible stuff for the guts right enough,’ said Charles.

‘Ah but it’s better than that English water they sell here. Bitter?’ he shook his head, ‘It’s a penance to drink it Jock.’

‘Aye,’ agreed Charles. ‘You been waiting long?’

‘Not at all,’ he shook his head again and spat on the floor. ‘Want a roll?’

‘You’re kidding me Mick?’

‘Aw what you going on about? Here,’ he took out his pouch and handed it to Charles. ‘I’ve plenty here and I’ll be getting a few quid this morning. Help yourself Jock.’

Charles accepted and rolled himself a smoke.

‘Been over long, man,’ he asked.

‘Too long Jock,’ he gave a short laugh, ‘Still skint.’

He struck a match on the floor and they lit their cigarettes.

‘Aye if I’d been buying that Guinness in shares instead of pints I’d be worth a fortune, and that’s a fact. The hell with it.’

‘You’re next Mick,’ said Charles.

The Irishman went to the counter and received the signing-on card from the young girl. He signed on and was handed his pay slip then he walked over to the cashier where he received his money and vanished.

Charles followed Mick to the first counter and to his surprise received a pay slip. Normally he got a BI form for the NAB. He asked the girl whether he would still have to visit the Social Security Office.

The girl smiled, ‘Not this week anyway Mr Donald.’

Charles strode across to the money counter and stole a quick look at the pay slip. Good God. He looked again.

‘God love us,’ he said loudly.

£23.82p. Jesus. Oh you good thing. Nearly twenty-four quid. Man man that’s almost eighteen back money. What can one say God? Mere words are useless.

He passed the pay slip under the grill to the older lady who dispensed the benefit. She passed him the money after he had signed again.

‘My sincere thanks madam,’ he said.

The cashier smiled, ‘That makes a change.’

‘You have a wonderful smile,’ continued Charles folding the wad. ‘I shall certainly call back here again. Good morning.’

‘Good morning,’ the cashier watched him back off to the exit.

Charles closed the door. Yes maybe chances there if I followed it through. Maybe she just pities me though, with that smile? Impossible.

He walked up Pentonville Road and decided to go for a pint rather than a breakfast. Ten past eleven. Not too early.

‘Pint of bitter and eh. Give me,’ Charles stared at the miserable gantry, ‘just give me one of your good whiskies eh?’

The ancient barman peered at him for a moment then bent down behind the bar to produce a dusty bottle of Dimple Haig.

‘How’s this eh?’

‘Aye that’s fine,’ replied Charles. ‘How much is it?’

‘Seven bob,’ the barman muttered rubbing his ear thoughtfully.

‘Give me twenty Players too and that’s that.’

The barman passed over the cigarettes and grabbed the pound note mumbling to himself. Very friendly old bastard that. Must hate Scotsmen or something. The old man brought back the change and moved around the counter tidying up.

‘Hoy!’ called Charles after a time. ‘Any grub?’

‘What’s that?’ cried the barman left hand at his ear.

‘Food! Have you any food?’

‘What d’you want eh?’

‘Depends. What have you got?’

‘Don’t know,’ he thought for a moment, ‘Potato crisps?’

‘No chance,’ replied Charles. ‘Is that it?’

‘Shepherd’s pie? The wife makes it,’ he added smiling strangely.

Wonder why he’s smiling like that. Poisoned or something?

‘Homemade eh?’ asked Charles, ‘yeah I’ll have some of that.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes now for heaven’s sake,’ he shook his head.

‘Okay okay, just take a seat and I’ll go tell her eh?’ He shuffled off. As he passed through the partition he glanced back at Charles who gave him a wave.

Kind of quiet this place. Wonder when it gets busy. Strange I’m the only customer in at eleven thirty on a Thursday morning.

The ancient barman returned.

‘’Bout ten minutes eh.’

Charles nodded and he resumed wiping some glasses. Charles moved to a table near the window. He lit a cigarette.

Man man who would of thought of me getting back money like that. Brilliant. Let me see. 11.35 a.m. By rights I should still be sitting in the second interview queue at the NAB. The fat woman’s kids would be rolling on the floor and she’d be reading the Evening Standard dog section. Yes I’ll be missed. They’ll think I’ve gone to Scotland. Or maybe been lifted by the busies. Won’t have to go back there for a while. Perhaps just as well. I could have ended up in trouble if that sarcastic civil servant bastard had persisted in aggravating me. I would have had to hit him. No choice.

A huge woman appeared from behind the partition holding a plateful of steaming shepherd’s pie.

‘One shepherd’s pie,’ she cried.

Her chins trembled and her breasts rested on her knees as she bent to plonk the full plate down in front of Charles’ table.

‘This looks wonderful,’ said he sniffing the meal. He smiled up at her, ‘Madam you’ve excelled yourself. How much do you ask for this delicious fare?’

‘14p.’ She pointed to her husband. ‘He’ll give you the condiments. Just shout, he’s deaf occasionally.’

‘Many thanks,’ said Charles placing 20p on her tray. ‘Please have a drink on me.’

‘Ta son,’ she said as she toddled off to the kitchen.

Charles ate quickly and thoroughly enjoyed the meal.

‘Hoy! Hoy!’ he called when he had finished.

The barman was standing elbows leaning on the counter, staring up at the blank television screen.

‘Hoy!’ shouted Charles again, walking to the bar.

‘Yeah? Yeah? What up eh?’

‘Another pint of bitter and have one yourself.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Jesus! What’s up here at all. Listen man. Get me a pint of bitter please and have one with me eh? How’s that eh?’ cried Charles.

‘Fine son, I’ll have a half. Nice weather eh?’ the old fellow pulled the drinks showing distinct signs of energy.

‘Pity about the Fulham eh? Still they’ll be back, the old Fulham eh? Yeah they’ll be back eh?’ He took a long swig of beer. Eyes closed, a slow stream trickled down his half-shaven chin winding its way round his Adam’s apple on down under his shirt collar.

‘Yeah poor old Chelsea,’ he said and finished the drink.

‘What about the old Jags though? Even worse than Fulham.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The Thistle man, the old Partick Thistle were relegated last season.’

‘Ah. Scotch team eh?’ he asked. ‘Don’t pay much heed.’

‘Yeah you’re right. Not much good up there,’ said Charles.

‘Bloody Celtic and Rangers,’ the old fellow shook his head in disgust. ‘Get them in here sometimes and the bloody Irish. Mostly go up the Angel they do. Bloody trouble they cause eh?’

‘Give me another of those Dimples will you?’

‘Yeah,’ he smiled awkwardly. ‘Like them do you? Can’t say I do. Drop of gin now and then, yeah that’s about it.’

Charles returned to his chair with his fresh drinks and sat quietly for about five minutes. Then he looked up at the bar.

‘Hoy!’ he shouted.

The deaf barman had regained his former position beneath the television set. He gave no indication of having heard.

‘Hoy!’ bawled Charles.