Memoirs of a Dance Hall Romeo (17 page)

‘This calls for a celebration. We’ll start at The Tall Man and work our way to town, pub by pub, finish the evening at Murphy’s.’

As it happened I had a date with Harriet, having promised to take her to the theatre. I had only just left her for we had come home from school together. Since that first memorable evening our affair had ripened in a very satisfactory way. In fact I’d been in the habit of sleeping at her place most nights.

‘We’ll take her with us,’ Jake said when I explained.

I couldn’t really see Harriet in Murphy’s, that was the thing, and said so, but Jake wouldn’t take no for an answer.

‘Leave her to me, old sport, I’ll handle her. We’ll have one hell of an evening, I promise you. She’ll love it!’

Persuade her he did indeed, for when the Irishman in him took over, Jake could charm the birds off the trees. In any case, Harriet took to him at once and Jake, delighted, as he informed me at one point, to find that for once I had found myself a lady, put himself out to please.

The pub crawl he had intended was severely curtailed, we only went into the better bars, and drank shorts instead of beer. It was all very civilized and any idea of ending the evening at Murphy’s had obviously vanished from his mind. The trouble was that at one point in the proceedings he mentioned the place to Harriet, who immediately declared that she’d like to see what it was like for herself.

Which was enough for Jake, who by that time had decided she should be denied nothing. I was pretty well floating by then, not having his head for liquor, and was in no condition to argue.

I tried, however, but he waved me down. ‘One drink, old sport, that’s all, just to show her how the other half lives, and then we’ll go, I promise you.’

And that was very much that, for he whistled up a cab from the City Square rank and a moment later we were away.

Murphy’s was an alehouse rather than a pub, a tall, decaying pile of rotting brick that stood like a sore thumb in the middle of a bomb site by the river which had been cleared for re-housing. There was music on the night air, voices raised in song, a considerable amount of laughter, and when we ventured in the bar was packed for it was near to closing time.

Ordinarily I wouldn’t have lasted five minutes in there for this was an Irish boozer and outsiders, meaning the bloody English, weren’t welcome. Jake was Irish enough for any man, in spite of his Yorkshire upbringing, and well known in the district.

He was warmly greeted by several rough-looking individuals and the landlord himself, a one-eyed giant with a tangled grey beard and broken teeth called Sean Murphy, an ex-heavyweight boxer, who always reminded me uncomfortably of the great Victor McLaglen in one of those roles where he looks ready to clear the bar on his own at any moment.

Indeed most of the gentlemen there that night bore a resemblance to Victor McLaglen, at least to my befuddled mind. I accepted the pint of Guinness someone thrust into my hand and sank into a corner seat. Harriet loved it, every awful minute, and the Irish, ever gentlemen where women are concerned, whoever else gets the back of their hand, made much of her.

I remember her sitting on the bar at one point while someone serenaded her with
Mother Macree
to an accordion accompaniment. Then a handsome young man, with a face on him like the devil himself beneath his battered cloth cap, sang
The Lark in the Clear Air
in Irish in a tenor voice that would not have disgraced the Albert Hall, a thing of such haunting beauty that several gentlemen at the bar cried openly.

I must have slept after that, God knows for how long, but I came back to life to find the bar empty, except for Murphy himself who played a melodeon, Harriet on a stool still looking as fresh as a daisy and Jake, who seemed to be executing some kind of Irish jig on the bar itself.

Murphy was singing at the top of his voice, a dreadful song which concerned itself with the ambush of a group of Black and Tans at some place called Macroom. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just past midnight. I got to my feet, Jake waved to me, and at the same moment there was a thunderous knocking on the door.

‘Police!’ a voice called. ‘Open up!’

Murphy was round the bar in a second, an apron in his hand which he shoved at Harriet. ‘Get that on and get behind the bar quick washing glasses.’

‘What about us?’ Jake whispered.

‘Upstairs to bed with you and be quiet.’

It seemed a sensible enough idea for I knew he rented beds by night to itinerant Irish labourers. Jake grabbed me by the arm and shoved me out into the passage as Murphy moved to the door grumbling.

‘Would ye hold onto your patience for a while?’ we heard him call as we reached the landing.

The police were in a moment later, boots pounding, and Jake opened the nearest door and shoved me inside. There was a double bed, I remember that quite distinctly. Remember also climbing between the sheets fully clothed for there was hardly time to undress.

A moment later, the door opened and a man appeared in a cloth cap, donkey jacket and dungarees, one of Murphy’s single-night tenants as it transpired later, who had been having some supper in the kitchen. He was obviously very drunk, lifted the blankets and got in on the other side of Jake, fully clothed, cloth cap and all.

‘Move over and give a fella a bit of room here,’ he grumbled.

A split second later, the door was flung open and a large police sergeant entered followed by two constables of equal dimensions. He stood looking down at us, hands on hips.

‘What have we got here, the Babes in the Wood?’ he demanded and pulled the blankets to one side. ‘Do you usually go to bed with your shoes on?’

‘Only when my feet are cold,’ Jake said.

By some miracle, the ploy with Harriet worked and she was allowed to depart, vanishing instantly into the night. Murphy, Jake, myself and the unfortunate labourer who had got into bed with us were nothing like as lucky, for English law seems to consider drinking after hours roughly on the same level as rape, assault with a deadly weapon or armed robbery.

They sent for a Black Maria. Within half-an-hour, we were being booked into the local bridewell by a granite-faced desk-sergeant, who looked as if he’d seen everything there ever was to see.

It was an interesting experience, especially the moment when he asked my profession and I had to answer schoolmaster. The look on his face was enough and my heart sank like a stone.

I don’t know whether the drink had finally got to Jake or what, but he became more than a little awkward when his turn came, adopting the kind of Abbey Theatre accent the English fondly imagine to be typical of the Irish, referring to the sergeant as ‘yer honour’, which that worthy did not appreciate at all.

‘Pull yourself together, O’Reilly,’ he snapped at one point. ‘This kind of conduct isn’t going to get you anywhere. Now what’s your profession?’

‘Ah, that’s aisy, yer honour,’ Jake told him. ‘Solicitor’s clerk, wit, bon viveur, sportsman, raconteur, soldier of the Irish Republican Army and all-round good egg.’

Our fate was sealed and we were remanded together to face the worst that the bench had to offer the following morning.

I passed the night in a drunken stupor, which was still with me when we were led into court at ten-thirty. I noticed Harriet sitting over by the door. As I found out later, she’d simply taken the morning off school. Jake waved to her and was sharply brought to order by the clerk, who proceeded to read out the charges.

For some reason, Jake had been listed as labourer, possibly because the sergeant had been unable to take the choice he had offered him seriously, or more possibly, because that seemed the right sort of job for someone with a name like O’Reilly. However, I was still listed as schoolmaster, there was no avoiding that.

The magistrate, an ageing, world-weary gentleman who had listened to the police sergeant’s stolid account of the whole affair with obvious distaste, turned his wrath, at the end of things, particularly in my direction.

‘These other poor wretches have acted in a manner which can only be described as typical of their type, but you, Shaw—’ Here he glowered at me over the tops of his spectacles. ‘—a man of education, a schoolmaster. For you there can be no excuse. Indeed I can only hope that your disgraceful conduct is brought to the attention of the proper authorities.’

In the face of such virulence I found it difficult to believe that I was only being charged with drinking on licensed premises after hours. Murphy, Jake and the labourer were fined two pounds each. I was charged a fiver. So much for justice.

We were free within the hour, Jake having been allowed to phone a colleague, who soon appeared with the necessary funds. Harriet was waiting at the top of the Town Hall steps when we went out into the pale morning sunshine.

She rushed to my side, concern on her face, and took my arm. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, honestly I am.’

‘That’s all right,’ I told her. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘But it was,’ she replied instantly. ‘After all, I did insist on visiting the wretched place. You made it quite clear you thought it wasn’t such a good idea from the beginning, only Jake wouldn’t listen.’

She glared accusingly at Jake, who made himself scarce at once and left us to it.

‘Does Carter know?’ I asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not yet.’

He will,’ I said. ‘You can bet your sweet life on that.’

It was on page two of the local paper that evening. The inside page, perhaps, but it didn’t really matter, for they had done me proud, with a nice black headline all to myself.
Local teacher appears before bench.
There was a lot more in smaller print, including magistrate’s comments.

The following morning Carter called me out of my classroom and spoke to me in the corridor. ‘I’ve had a phone call from the Office about you, Shaw,’ he said coldly. ‘You’re to call in after school. Mr Crosby wants to see you. Four-thirty sharp.’

‘All right,’ I said.

He started to turn away, then suddenly rounded on me, quivering with indignation. ‘It really is quite disgraceful. I don’t know how you can show your face.’

I told him where to go in very succinct Anglo-Saxon, advancing towards him at the same moment. It worked splendidly, for the cigarette fell from his lips as his mouth gaped in alarm, and he was off like a shot.

When I was shown into Crosby’s office that evening I found Dawson with him. They remained seated behind the desk, frowning at me sternly. The atmosphere was nothing like as cordial as it had been on that first occasion.

‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ I said. ‘You can have my resignation.’

‘I’d like to remind you that the contract you signed runs till the end of this term, Shaw,’ Crosby said sharply.

‘Look, let’s get this over with,’ I said. What am I here for?’

‘It’s a question of standards, Shaw,’ Dawson said earnestly. ‘Of common decency. I mean to say, you’ve behaved disgracefully, you must see that.’

We’ve the morals of the children of this city to think of,’ Crosby put in.

It really was too ludicrous for words when one considered they were willing to employ a man like Carter. One of our most able headmasters, was how Crosby had referred to him. But by then I’d had enough of this farce. Of stupid, petty little men who were only interested in expressing their authority.

‘Look, do you want my resignation or not?’ I demanded.

‘At the end of the term,’ Crosby said.

‘As laid down in your contract,’ Dawson added. ‘Needless to say, you’ve failed your probationary year.’

‘Gentlemen, I thank you.’

I louted low, gave them a very stiff two fingers each and walked out.

I had some tea at a Lyons café and went to the cinema.
Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye
, with James Cagney showing them all the way, at one point knocking the merry hell out of a man who bore a remarkable resemblance to Dawson, which cheered me considerably. I enjoyed it all immensely, and left about nine o’clock to find it raining again.

I walked all the way home, full of energy and enormously cheerful in spite of what had happened. A few more weeks and Khyber Street would be behind me, and what could be bad about that?

When I let myself in at the front door there was another letter waiting for me from my agent, which I could tell at a glance because he’d taken to using envelopes with his name and address printed on the flap.

My heart started to beat a little faster, a finger touched me coldly in the pit of the stomach, a premonition of disaster. Something had gone wrong, I knew it. I sat down, opened the letter carefully and discovered that he’d had an offer for the film rights of the book.

I sat there for a long, long moment, quite stunned, then I re-read the letter slowly to make sure I hadn’t made any mistake. But I was right first time. Two hundred pounds for a year’s option, against an eventual price of two thousand if the film was ever made.

I did a quick sum in my head. British and American book rights and now this, giving me a grand total of seven hundred and fifty pounds in advances.
About double my annual salary as a teacher at Khyber Street.

I think I did the run through the garden to Jake’s in record time. There was a light at his window. I paused at the top of the fire escape to peer inside, and found him on the couch with his pretty war widow, Mrs Tarrant.

Which left Harriet, and I buttoned up my trenchcoat and set off in the rain, taking the short-cut through the park. Dear Harriet, she’d really come to mean a great deal to me during the past couple of weeks. I suppose the plain truth was that she had everything. As someone once said, brains, good looks and a whore in bed.

I moved a little more quickly, just thinking about her, but when I reached the house and went up the drive there was no light in her window. I climbed to the terrace and rapped on one of the panes.

After a while, a lamp was switched on in her bedroom and the window was raised a little. ‘Who is it?’ she called.

‘Oliver.’ I moved to the window. ‘Let me in. I’ve got some wonderful news.’

‘Oliver?’ She sounded half-asleep. ‘What time is it?’