Last Orders (29 page)

What I’m trying to say is that it’s your own damn fault. If no one ever kissed you, no one ever missed you, except me. It’s your own damn look-out. And it’s too much to hope, I suppose, too much to expect that after fifty years without a peep, without a whisper from you, you should be waiting now, knowing, waiting to say: I understand, I’ve always understood. It’s all right. Forget me.

What I’m trying to say is Goodbye June. Goodbye Jack. They seem like one and the same thing. We’ve got to make our own lives now without each other, we’ve got to go our different ways. I’ve got to think of my own future. It was something Ray said, about how much was I short.

You remember Ray, Uncle Ray? He and I came to visit you once, that summer I missed those Thursdays.

I’ve got to be my own woman now. But I couldn’t have just stopped coming without saying it to your face: Goodbye June. And I couldn’t have said the one thing without saying the other. It won’t mean anything to you but someone’s got to tell you, no one else is going to. That your own daddy, who never came to see you, who you never knew because he never wanted to know you, that your own daddy

When he was stripped to the waist for digging in, lorry-loading, ammo-lugging or when he was at what the Army and no one else calls ablutions, and once when he was kipping in the shade of a busted wall at Matruh and I was supposed to be standing guard, half the time there’s nothing a soldier wants more than sleep, I’d fish in his breast pocket and take out that wallet. I must’ve looked like a thief except I wasn’t taking nothing, and I’d pull out that photo and wish I was him. There’s crazier things that keep you sane, when you’re lost in the desert. Though if I’d been him and had her, I wouldn’t’ve had him to be my shield and protector, to place himself between me and the bullets, so to speak. I wouldn’t’ve been little man hiding behind, I’d’ve been big man in front. Large target.

And I’d only’ve felt twice-over exposed and unprotected, any case, on account of having recently heard that the old man had died. Because news travels slow in wartime. But he was dead weeks before, when I’d never known it. He was dead when I was sitting on that camel with Jack, when we was eyeing up them tarts. When I’d scarcely set foot in Africa. Me, Africa. Well, Ray boy, you’ll see a bit of the world, you’ll see a bit more than the back end of Bermondsey, but keep your bleeding head down, that’s what I’m telling you. Which were two bits of fatherly advice I couldn’t see how you could ever fit together.

Not a bomb, his chest. And you wouldn’t think it would make any difference to your immediate safety and security, him not being there any more, when he wasn’t there
anyway, as far away alive as dead. Except it takes away a sort of allowance, a sort of margin. It makes you feel you’ve moved to the front, you’re next.

And it’s strange to think it was that way round. When you’d expect. When I’d dropped him a postcard only just before I got the news of him, to say I was alive and well and enjoying the sunshine, if I didn’t exactly wish he was here. Though he could’ve done a roaring trade, I reckon, what with all the scrap metal lying around, and the air would’ve been good for his lungs, dry and clean, except for the dust and the smoke and the petrol fumes and the bleeding flies. And he must’ve been shaping up, bracing himself to get some message about me, Pte. Johnson, R., that I was a goner. Jack said, ‘Well he’s spared that worry anyhow.’ Him flaked out under that wall just like a dead ‘un. And I thought of a time in the future when I might have to say to the girl in the photo, ‘Mrs Dodds? Amy Dodds? You don’t know me, but I knew Jack. In Africa.’ Holding in my hand a little bundle of what the Army calls personal effects. ‘My name’s Ray Johnson. I only live just round the corner.’

And just remember, Ray boy, you weren’t meant for scrap.

It was a photo taken at the seaside. Somehow you could tell that. Summer frock, summer smile, seaside photographer. And now I know where.

We’re moving on round the curve of the sea front, still at this snail’s pace, solemn and slow and proper. We ought to hurry up if we want to beat the rain. Except it looks like we’re going to get a soaking anyway, judging by the spray hitting that harbour wall, I mean Pier. The wind must be coming smack across the bay, west to east. The frontages are getting less grand and there’s not so much wide road between them and the sea. They look more flimsy and forlorn,
on account of they’re more exposed or on account of they never had so much in the first place to put up a show with.
Mario’s Coffee Parlour.
Some of them look shuttered up for good.
Rowland’s Rock Shoppe. The Ruby Lounge Free House.
I reckon Lenny’s got his eye on that, old ruby face. I reckon we’ve all got our eye on that.
Casanova’s Take-away. Femme Fatale – Lingerie, Health and Beauty.

It aint much. It aint much to write home about, if it’s what you get. If the sea’s just the sea, wet desert, and the rest is knick-knacks. A pier, a postcard, a penny in a slot. Seems to me you could say that Jack and Amy were spared, after all, Amy was spared. It’s a poor dream. Except all dreams are poor.

Thirty-four thousand.

I could see the world. It can’t be all sea and desert. I could see the other side of the world, Sydney Harbour, Bondi Beach, it must knock Margate into a cocked hat. I could see Sue, before she gets a message, saying— Before she says to Andy, who I reckon aint wearing that Afghan jacket any more, ‘It’s the old man.’

A goner.

And I could say, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stopped writing. Because it was me who stopped first, I’ll admit that, but I had my reasons. I’m a small man but I’ve got my pride and I aint good at admitting things. It was because of Carol. It was because Carol went and left me, dumped me for some other joker, and I was ashamed and afraid to tell you because I reckoned you’d think, for all that you and she used to be daggers drawn, that it was my fault somehow, or I was only pitching for sympathy or it was something to do with you having taken off in the first place. I thought not writing at all was better than thinking up lies, that’s what I thought. Except, now you know that and now you know
I haven’t told you for nigh on twenty-five years, it probably puts me even more under suspicion. And for twenty-five years you must’ve been thinking that there was Carol and me on the other side of the world, but me mainly, and we’d just decided not to write. Out of sight, out of mind. Must’ve made you all the gladder you hopped it. But here I am anyway, now, telling you, saying it to your face. Carol left me about six months after you did, that’s a fact. And the fact is I stopped missing her a long time ago, that’s how it is, but I aint ever stopped missing you.

Now, where are them grandchildren of mine? And the swimming pool. And aren’t you going to show me some koala bears?

I could see the world. It might be better than seeing racetracks. WincantonWolverhamptonYork. It might be better than chasing nags. Have you heard? Old Lucky Johnson’s given up the horses, aint going to put on another bet. The world’s full of lonely, out-of-luck men, hanging round racetracks, betting shops, checking football results, tearing up chitties, tooling about on Sunday afternoons like prats, plugged into metal-detectors.

And I could say to Susie, And another thing I haven’t told you. I haven’t come all this way all on my ownsome, no, girl. Wait there just a moment. There’s someone I— This is Amy. Amy, remember, your Auntie Amy as you called her? Except she aint your Auntie Amy now, not any more. You know what this trip is, don’t you? It’s not just any old trip, it’s not just a family reunion.

Except then I’d have to come right out with it, wouldn’t I? Own up. Me and your Auntie Amy. Just like your mum and— More to the point, I’d have to put it to Amy first, ask her, take the gamble. You don’t get nothing without asking, nothing ventured, nothing gained, first law of wagering.
But you don’t get nothing neither, sometimes, by stirring up old embers. You just get ash. She said, ‘We ought to stop this, I ought to start seeing June again,’ looking like a nun who’d done a bunk from a convent. She said, ‘I can’t not see June.’

You fancy a trip to Australia? Down under?

And suppose she said, ‘Forget it, Ray, that was over twenty years ago, wasn’t it? We’re old people now.’ Suppose she just said, ‘Forget it.’ So maybe I’m better off on my tod, like I always was anyway. Seeing the world on my tod, going down under all on my tod, with thirty thousand smackers in my wallet, for ballast. No one need know. Vincey don’t even know where his thousand went. I’d bank on it.

It won’t happen again like that, miracles don’t work twice. And it would’ve been sort of Jack’s gift anyway, one way or the other.

Or maybe I should just give her the money, straight, clean. Here you are, Ame, it’s thirty thousand, it’s to see you right. Don’t thank me, thank Jack and a horse. Except then I can’t see how I couldn’t tell her. That it was sort of meant like a sign, like a permit, like a blessing on the two of us, to carry on where we left off. And then it would be do or die again, your whole life on a yes or no. What do you say, Ame? And the whole world would have to know, if I was lucky. Not me seeing the world but the world seeing me. Raysy’s a dark horse, aint he? Snappy work, if you ask me.

But then
he
knew all along. That’s the long and the short of it. Had it all taped and sewn up. Just like he was, lying in that bed, sewn up. As if he was saying, These are my shoes, Raysy, go on, step in ’em, wear ’em. You always should’ve worn them, if there was anything other than the rule of blind chance in this world, if we could all see and choose in the first place. You and Ame. If we could choose. And you’d
be riding Derby winners and Lenny’d be middleweight champ. And I’d be Doctor Kildare. And Vic? I reckon Vic’s where he wants to be, I reckon Vic’s got it all sorted out.

Go on, take ’em. They’re about four sizes too big but I’d say you can walk in ’em.

If we could all see. We’re coming up to where the Pier starts now.
Barnacles Free House. Thanet Match Room – Snooker and Social.
If we could all see and choose. Bookies would go broke. But a few things happen anyway, a few things happen. Like we haven’t seen or chosen them though we would’ve if we could’ve, but they happen anyway, like they saw and chose us first, they saw us coming, like we aint been missed or overlooked altogether, even though we aint the tallest, smartest, niftiest, sharpest punter in the neighbourhood. The sky’s pressing down like it’s got to burst and Vince is looking for a place to pull in, and what I’m thinking is I’m holding the jar and I don’t deserve. The sea’s the colour of desertion. It’s the colour of wet ash. The rain’s coming. Oh Ray, you’re a lovely man. To have lived and heard a woman say that to you, even if it aint true. You’re a lovely man. The rain on the roof, the noise of the crowd like waves. With tears in her eyes and a flame in her throat: Oh Ray, you’re a lovely man, you’re a lucky man, you’re a little ray of sunshine, you’re a little ray of hope.

He said, ‘Jack boy, it’s all down to wastage. What you’ve got to understand is that what comes into the shop aint what goes out. Whole art of butchery’s in avoiding wastage. If a butcher could get cost on what he chucks in his waste-bin and his fat-drawer, he’d be a happy man, wouldn’t he? He’d be laughing. If you take away the weight of the wastage from what you buy in and divide what’s left into what you paid, that’ll give you your real cost to set against your takings and don’t you ever forget it. Bone’ll cost you and fat’ll cost you and shrinkage’ll cost you and not having your cutlery ground’ll cost you. And ending up, because of poor keeping or poor cutting, with lots of measly scraps of meat that aint fit to sell to no one’ll cost you more than anything. You got to keep a constant eye on wastage, constant. What you’ve got to understand is the nature of the goods. Which is perishable.’

Vince parks the car and I’m holding the jar, thinking, I don’t deserve, I don’t deserve. There’s a rough sweep of ground, between the road and the sea, with a little old squat building in the middle of it, with a clock tower, a customs house or something, and the Pier leading off behind. On one side there’s the inlet of the harbour, like the Pier’s armpit, with a concrete ramp going down, and on the other there’s just sea-front, high and railed, curving out the opposite way, with cliffs in the distance, murky white in the grey light, and seagulls doing stunts or lining up on the railings with their wings braced and akimbo. It’s like that way it’s not beach and sands any more, it’s just open sea, North Sea, next stop Norway, and the Pier was put here in the first place to form the bay and the beach and the harbour, sheltering arm against the elements. Only trouble is the elements are coming the opposite way today.

Vince says, ‘Right,’ opening his driver’s door before he’s hardly switched off the ignition. ‘Let’s do it, let’s do it.’ It’s like that slow drive along the front was just tightening his spring and now he wants to move fast. But the sky’s telling us we ought to get weaving anyhow, you wouldn’t think a sky could get so heavy without bursting. Vince looks up, holding out a cupped hand, half to feel for drops but half to beckon to us, fingers wagging, to get out and shift. It’s still only spitting at us, teasing, but the waves seem to know that something’s coming. They’re jostling and squirming like animals at feeding time, like they’re getting ready to get more wet.

Lenny says, ‘We could wait a bit. Jack could spare a quarter of an hour.’

Vic says, ‘It’s not a passing shower. It’s dirty weather setting in.’

Aye aye skipper.

Vince moves round to the boot to get his coat, leaving his door open. Cold air swirls round the car again, so does the niff of the seaside: tarry and bilgy and mucky, same time as it’s zingy and clean. It smells like something you remember, like the seaside you remember, except I never got taken to no seaside.
It’s Tower Bridge Pier or nothing, Ray boy, for you and me.
It smells like memory itself, like the inside of a lobster pot.

Vince comes round to where we can see him again. He’s carrying all our coats and jackets, like he’s Daddy again, but we don’t move. I reckon it’s because we’re all scared. We’re all scared all of a sudden. Vince bangs with his fist on the roof above Vic and Lenny, and Lenny ducks, instinctive, his mouth going flat and wide, his eyes going up and rolling, all froggy. ‘Come on,’ Vince says, ‘let’s go.’ Then Vic opens his door and Vince hands him his coat. Then I open my door but I stay sitting, holding the jar as if it’s too heavy to lift. Then Vince comes round to his open door to take the car keys, and drops my coat for me on his seat. I look at him, holding Jack, as if to say, Do you want? Would you like? And he says, ‘Hold on to him, Ray,’ as if he remembers he’s already done some carrying and chucking, a bit of Jack which got lost on the way. ‘Hold on to him.’ Which means it’ll be up to me. He says, ‘I don’t think we need the bag any more, do we?’ So I pull out the jar and drop the bag at my feet.
Jack Arthur Dodds.
The rain’s started to spit harder. Then I grab my coat and get out and Lenny opens his door and gets out. Vince hands him his coat and shuts his
door, locking up. Then we’re all standing in the wind and the noise of the sea, struggling to put on our clobber. I juggle with Jack while I get my cap on, jamming it tight against the wind, but I don’t like to put him down on the tarmac. I can see the jar’s going to get wet and slippery. Supposing I drop him? Vince is going bare-headed anyway, that slicked-back hair of his is all over the place, but I’ve put on my cap now and I wonder if I should’ve done.