Last Orders (26 page)

‘That’s not as though I’m agreeing,’ I say.

He says, ‘Course you aren’t, Raysy.’

I think, Jack won’t forgive me. Either way, he won’t ever forgive me. Wound a man once, you can wound him twice. I think of him down there at the shop even now, chopping and weighing, not knowing, while we sit here drinking. He always had a rule: no boozing at lunchtime, not even a quick mouthwash, not when you’re handling knives.

Then Vince downs the rest of his pint quickly and looks at his watch, hands all grubby, not like Jack’s. There’s the tattoo on his forearm, blue and red, made in Aden, a little scroll with his initials on with a fist holding a thunderbolt on top: ‘V.I.P.’

But ‘Dodds Motors’.

He says, wiping his mouth on his wrist, ‘Better dash, gotta see a man about a car.’ Grinning. He slips his packet of ciggies into the breast pocket of his shirt and gets off his stool, giving me a nudge on the shoulder with his knuckles. ‘Think it over,’ he says, sloping off, like it’s nothing special, like it aint neither here nor there.

And I sit there for a while, finishing my own beer slowly, getting out my own packet and lighting up again, Slattery’s clock edging round to quarter to three. Then I say, ‘Ta-ta, Bernie,’ and go down to Billy Hill’s, like I’m not thinking, and I put a one-pound bet each-way on a steeplechaser at Sedgefield, thinking, It’s not to make, it’s to decide. If it’s placed, I hang on, if it’s not, I sell. You shouldn’t bet on superstition. And it comes in fourth in a nine-horse race. O’Grady Says, five to one. So I walk out, thinking, That don’t settle nothing, and I go over to the yard, thinking, Either he’ll be there or he won’t, and if he is.

And he isn’t. There’s the Rover and the Alvis, sitting there in the sunshine, like someone’s ditched them, with a panel off here and a panel off there, and the Alvis with its back end hitched up on two stacks of bricks, and his tools and oil cans and greasy rags lying around. I think, He ought to have an inspection ramp. Lying all day on his back with his nose up an oil sump. The camper’s parked outside the lockup, the weather being mild for the middle of February, and it being in regular use at the moment. Regular and irregular. But it’s not in use right now, either kind. I think, I haven’t had a good trip out for a while, on account of making room for that girl, on account of being so accommodating.

I think, I sell Vince the yard. I never sold Jack the camper.

Then I just stand there in the middle of the yard, in the middle of my own yard, with the lock-up that used to be Duke’s old stable, and the new blocks rising up against the fuzzy blue sky and the railway arches running across, every arch some joker’s business premises, and the smell of dust and rust and the rumble of traffic and something banging away on a building site somewhere. I think, First Johnson, then Dixon, then Dodds. Or Pritchett. It’s a question of
territory. It’s when you say, This is my patch, this is my pitch, that the trouble starts. TowcesterUttoxeter.

So let him have the yard.

And now I think that he never knew, he never knew then and he doesn’t know now either. Because he’d’ve said, by now, he’d’ve come right out with it, today of all days. Surely he would.

I reckon he was only so cocksure and keen because that’s how he’s made, and because he was getting it at the time, from Mandy, in my camper. Not even guessing. But he still had me selling him that yard for a knock-down price and missing out on value for money, so I reckon that’s another reason why I should keep that thousand.

And I suppose now he’s given me my chance, that’s what he’s done. Tit for tat. Thrown it back at me. You were the one, girl, who wanted me to believe that life don’t ever play so mean that you don’t get a second chance, that it don’t start up again just when you think it’s finished.

Well, here’s your chance. That feller you lived with for fifty years, the one with the striped apron and the jokes for the housewives, he was just a stand-in. And now he’s gone, see, just when you thought the real Jack might be putting in a fresh appearance. Let’s all go to the seaside. Funny that, pops up again just to pop off. Don’t know what you’ve got till you miss it, do you missis? Have a bit of best end. So here’s your chance, here’s your life all over again. And it’s never too late.

Though it’s easier when you’re eighteen.

He levelled up the gun, one eye looking along the barrel, the other squeezed tight, and of course I thought, One day he might be doing this for real, not tin ducks but people. Or someone might be doing it to him. There must have been a few of them that summer taking pot-shots in side-shows and thinking it wasn’t such a game. But I suppose his call-up came at just about the right time, so far as he was concerned. Get me out of this, get me out of here, put me somewhere where I can start again. It’s possible, after all. Facing bullets would be easier, he’d be good at it. ’
Ere, Nursey, take a peek at this.
I suppose I knew already he’d be better at facing some things than others.

‘Have a go, have a go for the lovely lady. Three shots for tuppence.’

But I thought, like the fool I was, If he hits then we’ll find a way somehow, if he misses, never.

He said you’d think they’d be able to do something, these days, you’d think they’d come up with something.
They.
To make dud babies whole again. As if they could wave a wand. It was the only time we ever talked about her, in that guesthouse bedroom with its fine view of the tram depot, the only time she ever came up in the conversation. Then he said did I know he’d had this idea once, it was just a stupid idea, of being a doctor.

But he said he wasn’t no doctor, was he? No more, he said, than I was Florence Nightingale.

So I knew it wasn’t the simple rescue operation I thought it was going to be, the simple kill or cure. Margate or bust. Because maybe you don’t ever get your life over again, try telling it to June.

Which I have been these fifty years.

Best thing we can do, Ame, is forget all about her.

The ducks moved along in a never-ending row, on some hidden belt, each one painted red and white and green, but scratched and dented where shots had hit, each one with one big eye fixed open wide and its beak curled up in a smile, as if it was only too eager to be shot at again, to disappear with a ping and a clang then pop up again.

I stood behind him on the boards of the Jetty, with the lights and the noise and the crowds and the slither of the sea in the dark below, you could just feel it. The white cliffs looming towards Cliftonville. A steamer was moving out across the bay, chugging back to London, all lit up, like most of its passengers. I thought, Maybe he’s thinking it too: hit or miss, kill or. Three ducks says that life aint
finished yet. He seemed to take an age to fire each shot. Ping! One duck. Three more swam past, each one giving him the eye. Ping! Another duck. Ping! And after another two slipped goggling and smiling by, a third took a dive in the pond that wasn’t there.

‘Good shooting sir! Every one a winner! You see, folks, it can be done. They may be ducks but they don’t know how to duck, do they? Any more now, any more? So what’ll it be, sir? The chocs, the china or the teddy bear? Let the lady choose, shall we? The lucky lady.’

And like the fool I was I chose the teddy bear, the big yellow teddy bear. What would I want with that? Except to show the world it was my lucky day, our lucky day, and I was the lucky lady. He didn’t smile, he didn’t even look pleased. He just looked at me as I smiled and held the teddy bear, as if there was something he didn’t understand. And now, when I remember it, I know I never hugged him, like you do, for winning a prize. I just hugged that teddy bear, laughing. I thought, Which way now? Back to the shore or on to the end of the Jetty? Maybe it should’ve been the shore. All the wrong choices, and him having just made three shots count. But you don’t go on the Jetty just to walk half-way and then turn round again, teddy bear or no teddy bear, you don’t go on without going to the end, it’s what you do. And just for the time it took to walk to the end of that Jetty I felt, everything is still possible, everything is still floating, the water lapping and slapping beneath us, and I didn’t notice, or care if I did, that the smile he’d put on his face now was like the smile on one of those ducks. It was only when we got to the end that I thought, This isn’t true, it’s only a picture, a seaside postcard, and maybe that’s what he was thinking. How could I laugh and smile and act like life was a holiday? My whole stupid idea of going to Margate.
The breeze was flipping my skirt. Men were eyeing me. Lucky teddy bear. I thought, Just to be free again, with just the breeze and the night and the sea and the men looking. Having your pick. As if this was your starting point once more. LambethVauxhall.

There was a strap rubbing on one of my shoes, my new shoes, so I gave him the teddy bear while I stooped down to fiddle. Maybe I just wanted to hide my face. And I think even as I handed it to him I knew what he was going to do. There he was for a moment, a grown man, on the end of a pier, holding a teddy bear, a man on the end of a pier. He looked at it for an instant like he didn’t know why he was holding it, like he didn’t know what it had to do with him. Then he stepped nearer the railings. And then there wasn’t any teddy bear, there was just Jack. Goodbye Jack.

But I didn’t put my coat on and go down to Billy Hill’s. ‘George, I’ve got a thick ’un for you.’ Where I’d look a fool slapping down a thousand cash, even if they took it. Where I’d lose all credit for being a canny punter. ‘So what’s the game, Raysy? Looks like you’ve gone and won already.’ And where I might be tempted to say, any case, to declare to the assembled company, all the gluttons for punishment and two-quid no-hopers, ‘This is for Jack, I’m doing this for Jack. You know, Jack Dodds, it’s to save his skin.’ You’d have to be a fool to back a horse called Miracle Worker, you’d have to be a fool to own and train one. You’d have to be a bookie’s bosom pal. Still, if Lucky Johnson here has a fancy.

I picked up the phone there and then, third ciggy on the go, and dialled a number where I knew they’d take a four-figure punt, no questions asked, even from the likes of me. Where they’d say, ‘What’s the asking?’ And I’d say, ‘A thousand, to win, tax paid.’ And they’d take down my credit-card number and read me back the details without so much as a wobble in the voice, Miracle Worker, thinking, There’s one born every minute, there must be harder ways of making dough.

Thirty-three to one.

But it’s different if you
know.
And if it don’t come in, which it will, then Jack’ll get his money back. I’ll foot the bill for this bet, recoup it on another. Jack’ll get his thousand back, and that’s my conscience squared. Price of a camper.

‘All placed, Mr Johnson. Thank you for calling.’

And it has to be in my name, it can’t be in Jack’s. Because supposing. Just supposing.

Then I put Jack’s thousand in a spot I use, behind a cupboard. I aint carrying a grand in cash around with me more than I can help. And I put on my coat and shoved my cigs in my pocket and looked around the room before I left like I hadn’t ever looked at it before. It looked about the loneliest room on earth.

And you’re flogging the family home an’ all.

I walked in the direction of the Coach, thinking, If I’m so sure, I could pop in the turfie’s anyway and put on a bet of my own, or pick out a combination to cover my loss. Which wouldn’t be logical, if I
know
, and it’d be tempting fate, either way. This isn’t my day, it’s Jack’s day. You’ve got to keep it simple. Though it aint.

Or I should go and see him, now, tell him. Maybe that’s why I’m legging it along this street like there’s somewhere I ought to be going. 53 bus to St Thomas’s, Westminster Bridge. Tell him what his money’s riding on, tell him that the bet’s on me, either way. Least I can do, Jack. Except I don’t want to have to look him in the eye, or have him look me in the eye. And if he’s got any sense, he’ll tune in on his earphones, on his radio, that’s one thing he can still do. Racing from Doncaster. And he’ll know, because he will, he’ll know too.

So I slipped into the Coach. Quiet for a Friday. Bernie says, in his just-between-you-and-me voice, bringing me my pint, ‘What’s the news on Jack?’ I say, ‘I went in last night, I’ll go again this evening. It’s just a matter of time, Bern.’ Looking at Slattery’s clock. Quarter past two. And Bernie shakes his head, like what’s happening to Jack is something that ought not to be possible, like it’s a miracle working the opposite way. I say, ‘You having one too, Bern?
Have one on me. Fetch me a sandwich while you’re at it. Ham, no mustard.’ And up on its shelf, high up at the end of the bar, Bernie’s telly’s all set up and switched on, the screen angled and the sound pitched just right, so that any Joe sitting at the bar can keep his eye and ear on what’s showing, without having to move an inch to order a drink. Racing from Doncaster. Lincoln Handicap meeting.

Bernie brings my sandwich and sees me looking at the screen and says, ‘One or two on, I suppose?’ And I say, ‘No, as a matter of fact, I haven’t. It don’t seem right somehow, does it? What with.’ Bernie nods, approving. ‘But there must be one or two you’d fancy, any case?’ he says. I say, ‘Be telling, wouldn’t it?’ biting my sandwich. Bernie smiles, like he knew I’d say that. He pours his drink, nodding at the TV. ‘And I suppose you’d be there, wouldn’t you? If it wasn’t for.’ And I say, ‘Yep.’ Like Jack should’ve thought.

Cheltenham too, Gold Cup, then Doncaster, first of the flat.

He says, ‘Cheers, Ray,’ lifting his glass. ‘Good health all round.’ I say, ‘Good health.’ He says, ‘Sound up high enough for you?’ I nod and he waddles off, tea-towel over his shoulder, like he does when he knows conversation’s not what’s required. But he can see me sitting there, eyes glued to the screen, more than you’d think necessary for a man who hasn’t got a bet on. He can see me lighting snout after snout and knocking it back, quicker than usual. Steady drinker is Ray, slow and steady. ‘Make the next one a short, Bernie. That’s a long short.’

‘Caning it a bit, aren’t we, Raysy?’