No heatwave as yet. The clouds, ominous as they float serenely down the Stour, 'blacker'n'Noogits knocka' as described by my erstwhile poet newsagent, seem pregnant with the threat of more rain.
The weather's not the only dark cloud on Tel's horizon. The shop winds down inexorably, like a sh*t episode of 'Open All Hours'; no Granville to lighten the cockney Arkwright's load. He's losing regulars hand over fist to the Tesco Metro down the road. "Even ole Trevvah's stopped 'aving 'is mornin' Mail'n'a chat; 'e's gettin'em from bleedin' Tesco" muttered Tel sourly one morning as I (unwisely) commented how quiet it was. The loss of Mickey is noticeable,not just because of the lack of a southerly breeze of Mayfair smoke from his back door.
He needs a new suit for the nuptials of Paula and Blake in July. He tried his sole current suit on (bought in 2003 for a spot of Jury Service) and "the wife moaned'n sed 'it looks shiny Tel, get a noo one' an' ah told 'er, don't need a noo one if ah'm only gonna wear the bleeder once, stoopid that is". He asked my advice on where to go and I suggested M&S, and he ended up in Fenwicks in Colchester, where they start at about £300. Perhaps he and Dolly should compare notes?
I've not been invited to Paula's wedding. I haven't told Terry. He thinks I have been. He's talking like we're getting a cab back from the reception in Colchester. "Late night that'll be" he told me solemnly the other day. I nodded, wondering if I should tell him, but then worrying he'd take it badly and would then pester Paula until she felt forced to invite me. That'd be embarrassing. I don't know them well enough.
He's now the sole worker in the shop. Mrs Tel suffered a spell of illness two weeks ago and hasn't been seen since. "Like a bleedin' albatross round me back" he told me, mixing his metaphors and surveying his gloomy kingdom with the jaundiced eye of a cynic. The shop's going through a renaissance period until it gets put back on the market; he's cancelled some deliveries so shelves look barer than a Playboy Pool Party. He's had evaluations from estate agent 'mates' and they all reckon £140k if he sells. "Ah'll retire from this game, might get a job in B&Q to tide me over" he says, mulling over a mug of tea. He doesn't need the money. No mortgage, the best part of £300k still earning him interest. Mrs Tel's investments doing well. He can retire and go and play golf all day. If he played at all.
We had a curry last Friday. He fancied one so we agreed to meet at 8pm. He ordered a bottle of rose wine and it came, ostentatiously, in a silver bucket rattling with ice. Rose d'Anjou has never been treated so regally. I drank Aspalls with mine. I like Aspalls in the summer. "Zoider?" said Tel, trying for The Wurzels, ending up more like Wurzel Gummidge's Dagenham brother. "Aint that gonna be narsty wiv a chicken vindaloo?" No. It went well actually. The Rose d'Anjou went strangely with chicken tikka and lamb rogan josh, but I didn't say anything. They all disappeared down the same hole, along with a portion of lamb samosas and three oily bhajis.
We left for the pub after. Tel on his mobile trying to order a local taxi, then nipping to the "'ole in the wall like, need some foldin'". Expresso Martinis, served in tumblers and downed almost in one. Then a couple of rounds of brandies to finish the night. The pub was quiet for a Friday night/Saturday morning, small tables of gently giggling women, the odd fifty-something bloke nursing a pint of best and looking at his phone screen. It reminded me of the shop. Perhaps they're all dying, these once-great establishments of news and drink? The advent of the takeout can and the internet doing away with the expense of buying either.
"Ye've signed some League Too striker ah see" burbled Tel through his brandy. "Scored firty odd goals fer some lot darn there las' season so 'e knars where the goal is at least. Should make a nice change fer your lot". I smiled and nodded, dumbly, not really bothered now we'd secured James Norwood's services; it seemed old news even though it only happened last Monday. Tel babbled on about how crap we were while I watched the bloke at the bar swill the last inch of his pint, wipe his mouth with the back of his hand and mutter 'seeyer' to the barmaid, who briefly looked up from her Guinness pouring to wish him a brief 'goodnight'. He walked out, hitching his trousers up at the belt, pausing to read the menu on one of the tables.
And it hit me. This is me in fifteen years time. And I got that feeling, like I've read about, someone walking over my grave. So I ordered another round of brandies, even though we were still drinking the last ones, and Tel smiled as I set them down, and, much like the bloke at the bar, swilled the last of his down, the ice rattling against his teeth, and then said "Read mah mind, yer did" and reached for the new one. And we both continued the slow advance to our deaths with gentle banter about the Town and the shop and a combined outrage about Mickey's betrayal.
Wish you were here. But you never are. I don't blame you, either, sometimes. |  |
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