Lee Rourke: Vulgar Things

I’m sitting with my back to the sea wall, which stretches out behind me to my right, just outside the window. It isn’t far to walk from here. I watch people in the bar; they hardly notice my presence now. They’ve forgotten about me, I’ve already settled into the background. It’s the perfect place to sit, somewhere cosy to settle in for the evening. Apart from the rain lashing down, rattling the weatherboard behind me, all I can hear are the clientele’s murmurs and the odd cackle from the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt. If I concentrate, between the rain hitting the window and their voices disappearing, I can just about decipher what he’s saying to the woman: he’s explaining something to her, something about Southend. Then the sound goes again as the rain hits the window and I concentrate on the movement of his mouth instead, his scabby lips filling in the blanks for me.

‘It’s changing over there. It used to be different, Southend … Remember when … No one really went out … The pubs used to be full of National Front, some of them still fucking are … I hated it, you couldn’t move for fear of bumping into some fucking knuckle-scraper, the sights I’ve seen by the Kursaal at kicking-out time, the detritus of human existence, fucking real scum, drunk and angry, sexually frustrated … fucking soulless … Those flats … Houses … All gone now, they took them down in the seventies, I think. But let me tell you, go down Southend now and it’s all cappuccinos and students, even the old Irish pub by the station has changed, it’s a really nice place now, does good food … All gone, they must drink elsewhere, not as bad as the East End though, fucking Dalston’s full of boarding-school dropouts spending Daddy’s cash thinking they’re all new, they’re all individuals when they’re really a bunch of deluded, privileged scumbags dressed up in sequined rags … there’s that bit though, in Southend, there’s always that bit, down by the seafront, you know the bit, where the arcades are, those filthy pubs, at night they’re such seedy little places, the ones with the saggy dancers, fucking filthy pubs they are, all run by London and Eastern European gangsters, they’re always there, hanging around on the doors, looking for trouble, watching the tills … Always that bit, you know the bit? That little bit that spoils everything for everyone else, gives the rest of the town a bad name, some of the characters who drink in, what’s that place? … The Cornucopia, what a fucking shithole, some of the characters in there, the small place, what a wretched excuse of a pub, a wretched, wretched place … Their girls are all on smack … needle marks in their arms as they’re stripping off their Primark best … Who’d go and watch that? Filthy little place, the Cornucopia, and the Forrester’s, when are they going to knock that place down? It needs knocking down that place. But, you know, you don’t have to drink down there, there’s always the nice Irish place by the station, they do well, take care of their beers … and their customers. I was only in there the other day, lovely staff … but fuck … this fucking estuary …’

More people enter the pub, workers from the refinery and a couple of regulars. I order another cider and ask for the menu. I’m hungry now. The Lobster Smack has become a gastropub since I was last here, it seems. I order the steak, rare, and a bottle of red wine to go with it. I sit back down by the window, trancelike, sipping my drink, watching the group of workers and then looking out of the window from time to time. I finish my drink just as the barmaid arrives with my steak and bottle of house red. I pour myself a glass and tuck into my steak like I haven’t eaten for a week. The steak is cooked just how I like it, tender, oozing natural juices. Halfway through my meal a group of old ladies sit down at the next table. They’re locals, probably in their seventies, maybe older. I wonder why they are here, considering the weather has taken a turn for the worse. I didn’t see or hear a car drop them off, yet they couldn’t have all walked here. It doesn’t take them long to settle and order their drinks and food. They all order steak and gin and tonics. One of the ladies, grey hair all sprayed up, dripping in gold, asks for her steak to be cooked ‘well-done’. She repeats this several times to the barmaid taking the order. As the barmaid walks away from the group, the old lady calls after her: ‘I won’t eat this thing if it’s still alive!’ Her companions laugh in a way that suggests they are all accustomed to her behaviour in public, accepting it as banter. I look at her: she’s showy-Essex, bold as brass, tough-skinned and lippy. I reckon she’s never had a steak cooked any other way.

I drink my house red, which is surprisingly pleasant, and listen to the ladies. They’re mostly discussing things they’ve read in the tabloids and stuff they’ve seen on TV the previous night. The chatter is led by the lady who insisted that her steak be well-done. It ends abruptly as soon as their food arrives. I watch as the salt is passed around, liberally shaken over their meals. They slowly begin to eat, struggling to cut the meat and to chew, some of them struggling with their knives, holding them incorrectly, others moving the food around on their plates with their forks, before they even start. Suddenly, the lady who wanted her steak well-done shouts out to the barmaid.

‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’

The barmaid dashes over immediately, smiling, although it’s obvious she’s been expecting something like this to happen, as if it’s happened on numerous occasions.

‘Yes, my love.’

‘This steak is well-done, I can’t cut through it, it’s too tough, and I can’t chew it.’

‘You asked for it well-done …’

‘But I wanted it tender as well …’

‘Have it rare next time, then it’ll be as tender as you like …’

‘I don’t want my steak like the bloomin’ French have it.’

‘A well-done steak, a really well-done one, like you asked, won’t be tender. You say this to me every time you come in here …’

‘Yes, because you always cook my steak too tough …’

‘And you always ask for it well-done … Every time, and you always come back at me with the same complaint … I’ve told you about this so many times …’

‘It’s too tough …’

‘Okay, do you want your money back?’

‘No, I want some food I can chew …’

‘You say this every time … Every time you come in here.’

‘Okay, I’ll eat it. It’s too tough, but I’ll eat it.’

such a long time

After the old ladies have gone and I’ve finished my wine I grab my rucksack and walk up to the bar.

‘Same again?’

‘No, thanks … May I speak to Mr Buchanan, please?’

‘He’s over there …’

‘Where?’

‘There, talking to that man …’

‘Oh yes, I see him. Thanks.’

Mr Buchanan is speaking to the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt. The woman is with them too, but she’s drifted off and is staring out of the window as they talk. Mr Buchanan’s a large man, with a thick beard and small-rimmed, round glasses. I walk over to them. The man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt stops their conversation as if some dignitary had just arrived.

‘Ah, come and join us. Although I must warn you, we’re as boring as two old fuck-ups can be …’

‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Mr Buchanan …’

‘I know who you are …’

‘Really?’

‘You’re Rey Michaels’ lad …’

‘I’m his nephew, yes …’

‘Well, of course …’

‘Yes, well …’

‘Excuse me …’

He takes me to the other side of the bar and through a door into the back office. We sit down at his desk. He offers me a whisky, good Scottish stuff, cool as you like. I want to tell him that his actions are just like actions in films I’ve seen — the way he slouches in his chair and pulls the bottle of whisky from a drawer underneath his desk — but I don’t, instead I nod and watch him pour my drink. He hands it to me and I slouch back in my own chair just like him. The whisky burns the back of my throat, it starts a beautiful fire inside me.