James Kelman - An Old Pub Near the Angel

‘Was old Jim never married then?’ I asked.

‘Maybe he was. Couldn’t really say, Guvnor’d tell you.’

‘Who, him?’ I pointed over to the bartender.

‘What, him! Ha.’ The old guy snorted into his drink, ‘Guvnor’d? He would like that. Bloody guvnor. No his brother-in-law old Jack Moore’s the guvnor but he’s been laid up now for over a year. Broke his leg and it’s never healed up, not properly. Him!’ He pointed over to the bar, ‘Slag thinks he’ll get this place if Jackie packs it in,’ the old man’s voice was beginning to rise in excitement. ‘No chance, no bloody chance of that. Even his sister hates his guts.’ He was speaking rather loudly now and I looked to see if the bartender was loitering but he seemed engrossed in cleaning the counter. The old man noticed my concern and leaned across the table. ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ he spoke quietly, ‘he hears me alright but he won’t let on. Bloody slag. What was I saying though? Old Jim, yes he could drink. Scotch he liked. Drank it all the time. Don’t care much for it myself. A drop of rum now and then. That does me.’ He paused to roll another cigarette. ‘He used to play football. Palace I think or maybe the Orient. Course he was getting on when the war began, just about ready to pack it in then and he never went back afterwards as he lost his arm.’

‘Was that in the war?’

‘Yes, when he was torpedoed,’ the old man was silent for nearly two minutes, puffing at his roll-up between sips of the black rum I’d got him. ‘Funny he should have waited so long to do it. Nearly seventy, course maybe his arm had something to do with it.’ He scratched his head and said, ‘Course they talk in this place. Wouldn’t if Jackie was here though. No. Not bloody likely they wouldn’t,’ he sucked his plastic teeth, ‘no not if Jackie was here behind the bar.’ He inhaled very deeply. ‘Where’d you find him then. . I mean what like was he when,’ the old man stopped and finished his drinks.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘just like it said in the papers. I was a bit worried ’cause I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days so I went along and banged his door. No answer, so I went off to the Library to see if I could see him there.’

‘The Library?’ the old man looked puzzled.

‘Yeah, old Jim used to go up before opening time nearly every day.’

‘Yes expect he would,’ said the old man, ‘now I think on it.’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I got back about half five and saw the landlady. She was worried so I said did she want me to force the door. She said if I thought so I broke the door in and he was lying there, on the bed. The landlady saw him too before I could stop her. Throat sliced open. Doctor said he couldn’t have eaten for over a week.’

‘Bloody fool,’ the old man sighed, ‘he should’ve ate. That’s one thing you should do is eat. I eat every day. Yes, make sure of that. Well you’ve got to. Plate of soup’s good you know.’

I had ordered two drinks just on the last bell, we stayed silent, smoking and drinking until I finished and rose and said to him, ‘Well old man I’m off. See you again.’

‘Yes,’ he said staring into his glass shaking his head, ‘old Jim should’ve ate eh!’

When Pete arrived home, well after midnight, the camp was in complete darkness. Fortunately the long dry spell had made the walk across the field comparatively safe. During the earlier part of the month the field had been reduced to a swamp and Pete had had to remove his socks, if he was wearing any, when crossing. One night when drunk, he had fallen full length into a cowbog and had to have a fully clothed shower afterwards.

The gate creaked as he closed it behind him. He walked noiselessly to his tent and fumbled around inside for his toilet bag and towel. He still felt rather pissed, a shower would freshen him up. A transistor sounded out from a nearby tent. As he walked to the washroom he hummed along with the singer.

There were two shower cubicles and each had a sixpenny slot attached to the door. However Pete had a steel comb which he surreptitiously used to force the lock when no one was around. He decided to brush his teeth first and as he squeezed the paste onto the toothbrush the door opened.

He watched in the mirror.

‘Hullo there,’ he said, vaguely recognizing one of the holidaymakers, a lad of about eighteen.

‘Hullo,’ replied the youth, ‘didn’t think there’d be anyone about.’ He had a towel round his shoulders.

‘Oh, I just got back,’ grinned Pete into the mirror.

‘Have you?’ he asked enviously, ‘Were you in St Helier?’

‘Yeah, I was in over the weekend. Drank too much as usual. Pubs are too good in this place.’

Pete began brushing his teeth.

‘Too hot to sleep,’ said the youth, ‘I was going to have a swim.’

‘Christ Almighty!’ Pete spat into the basin. ‘You kidding?’

‘No! I was in last night.’

‘But the pool’s covered with drowned flies.’

‘I never noticed.’

‘Must be crackers man.’ Pete rinsed his mouth. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’m going for a shower, a hot one.’

Pete walked to the cubicle door.

‘Now don’t watch,’ he said, pulling out his steel comb.

The youth smiled as Pete inserted it in between the lock and the door.

‘Do you do that too?’ he asked.

‘What! It was me who started it son. Holidaymakers should have more respect.’ He grinned.

‘Imagine charging sixpence for a shower though.’

‘Yeah it’s pretty stiff. What’s your name?’

‘Dave, Dave.’

‘Well, I’m Pete. See you later.’ He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Dave heard the tap being turned on as he left the washroom. The moon cast light over the campsite now, and the stars were glittering.

He opened the small gate leading to the pool. There were no flies as far as he could see. Throwing off his jumper and jeans he took a deep breath and plunged straight in. The water was colder than the previous night. He swam two lengths before jumping out shivering. Collecting his clothes and towel, he ran back to the washroom to dry.

Pete was combing his hair when he entered. Cold beads of water stood out on the boy’s goose-pimpled body.

‘Christ Almighty! Don’t shake near me man.’

‘Fresh and invigorating,’ laughed Dave, ‘very healthy.’

‘Crackers, I wouldn’t swim in there in the middle of a heatwave.’

‘Why not?’ asked Dave rubbing himself down.

‘It’s not been cleaned for two months. Can you imagine all those kids in there peeing and throwing lumps of mud about. And what about the drowned flies for God’s sake.’

Pete pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Here,’ he offered the packet.

Dave accepted one and finished dressing.

‘How long you been here Dave?’

‘Almost two weeks. Go back day after tomorrow.’

‘Like it?’ asked Pete sitting himself on the washhand basin.

‘Not bad. Saw nearly everything. Went to the old German hospital yesterday and we went around the island again today.’

‘More than I’ve done in four months.’

‘Four months?’ echoed Dave.

‘Yeah, I’m doing the season. My fourth,’ he added.

‘Lucky man,’ murmured Dave.

‘Yeah, it’s a good place this.’

‘Is the old Irishman with you?’

‘Old Patrick?’ Pete smiled, ‘he isn’t with anybody.’

‘What do you do to live?’

‘Oh picking. Potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, roses.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Pick anything at all. Even noses.’

He jumped down from the basin.

‘Anyway Dave I start work in approximately six hours.’ He opened the door, ‘See you tomorrow if you’re around.’