Tel couldn't get the paint right for the shop front window. "Keeps drippin' orf me roller" he mithered, hands and forearms covered in white gloss. Everything he touched suffered from white fingermarks. He trailed white gloss through the shop, like a cheap 'Hansel and Gretel'. "'Ope it comes off easy" he said to me, panic-eyed.
The shop is now shut. Finito. His last paper delivery happened on Friday. He cancelled for the weekend, depriving me of my last Times (I went to Tesco instead). He's having a "Knees-up" tonight, a barbecue and drinks and memories. He got the meat from our local butcher on Friday. I hope he gets the white gloss marks off before he cooks it.
In the end, it was easy. The "Sorry we're closed" sign adorned the door long before he actually shut on Friday afternoon. I had Friday off, so bought my spare roller and scraper and that tub of Polyfilla I bought five years ago and used about two pinpricks of, to fill any holes left by magazine racks or general disrepair. The tub's now half full. We filled in loads of cracks.
"Why are we doing this, when the new owner is having a complete refit anyway?" I asked during a break in cursing and yet more paint falling off the window. "'Cos she arsked me ter do it" said Tel, as though talking to a simpleton. We continued, me on Polyfilla duties with a spatula that now resembled a newly dug Anglo-Saxon trinket encrusted with brown matter, and Tel looking like he'd bathed liberally in the paint. We broke for beers at eleven, having twice had to yell "We're closed" at two old dears who tried the door, desperate for their fix of "People's Friend".
I bought the beers. They were cold when I got them. Now, on a gorgeous day with no chilling device in situ, they were like drinking b*llock water. Still, we swilled and gasped and sat on two deckchairs out the back in the sun, watching the kids perfect their skateboard stunts in the car park, hoping they'd fall off and hurt themselves. Tel said amiably "Well, we got more done than I fought" and we clicked bottles and drank the suds at the bottom and wiped mouths (Or Tel nearly did, but luckily he remembered in time and fished instead for a hanky, leaving white finger marks on his cargo shorts).
And then it was done, and we left and locked up for the last time, Tel with a last discerning look at his place of employment for the last 34 odd years, no emotion, yet a strange sort of comradeship that we'd seen it through to the death. He took the closed sign home with him "Jers' in case we ever start a noo'un, 'ad this fer twenny-five years, daft to buy a noo one". We went to his place to clean up, and change into shorts and t-shirts and then we went down the boozer.
Tel ordered rose wine and we saluted each other over the bottle, rattling in the ice bucket, as we surveyed the pub garden and the broken plastic tree-house swing thing that is the sole concession to the pub calling itself 'child-friendly'. The other customers, a worldly mix of the retired, the long-lunch-on-a-Friday brigade and the unemployed, all sat out, tanning their tattooes in sleeveless vests, slurping their Stellas and having great plates of fried comestibles brought out by bored-looking female bar staff in tight trousers.
We resisted the temptation for a late lunch, having booked the local Indian for later. They don't have a dress code, thank the lord. We looked like two builders as it was. It was still warm at six as Tel got the last round in (another bottle of rose with two scratched glasses and two double Napoleon chasers with ice) and we bathed in the early evening sun, regaling each other with funny stories and work. At least one of us felt a bit squiffy as we meandered along to the Indian, cars weaving down the street, sunburn starting to prickle on the neck and the arms.
The Indian was great. Tandoori lamb chops, king prawn vindaloos, chicken Samosas, poppadoms in stacks higher than skyscrapers. The beer was ice-cold and the paint marks had nearly worn off. Tel said "This woz 'ow I imagined it, lars' day on the job, 'ome for keeps". We shared a smile and he sighed and said "'Ope she looks arter it. Been a good fing, that shop fer us" and I agreed. Still.......it's getting a new lease of life as a coffee shop/deli/ice cream parlour. I'd imagine it'll do well. Near(ish) to the seafront, regular enough custom, opening in two weeks to catch the last of the summer trade. Then the autumn regulars, supercilious, drinking their expressos and eating their little pastries while reading the Guardian or on their micro-laptops. Blinding. Who needs newspapers when it's all on your phone anyway?
Tel texted her while we were in the pub. Just to let her know we were gone and she could start ordering the refitters. I fondly imagined her opening up, looking round her new domain with pride, wondering who the hell was stupid enough to try putting white gloss on the windows. It struck me as being an odd choice for a coffee shop. I might even use it when it opens, just to have a look, see if I can find old memories there. I probably won't. But still....
Saturday dawned bright and warm. I woke with the usual hungover reluctance, and fed and watered the birds who were (almost) pointing feathered fingers at their beaks and staring insistently at the french doors. Everyone seemed to be up to something except me. My parents were off to see Ed Sheeran at Chantry later, meeting friends at The Boathouse in Dedham for pre-Ed drinks and a meal. My mates were off to Reading Festival. My ex-wife was in Corfu. I was sat, lonely, watching Soccer Am in my pants, the curtains drawn against the sun, the hangover making my guts burble and my head throb.
I went for a walk into Flatford at 10.30. Me and fifteen thousand others, all in shorts and walking boots, picnics and metal flasks of water, Karrimoor backpacks and excitable spaniels on leads. The swallows darted over the Stour and the cows lay in the shade, hazes of flies round their heads, docilely watching the nutty humans as they toiled in the heat. It was a great walk. I only felt sick twice, and only one of those was a genuine panicked feeling which amounted to a quick dry retch in a hedge, away from prying eyes.
Got back to comparative civilisation (well, Manningtree) at two and went to the Skinners, joining the throngs for a cold restorative pint and the last knockings of the scum game. They lost. The Blue-shirted, unbearably smug Chelsea fans made disparaging remarks about carrot-crunchers and Kurt Zouma as they sipped their Carling-tops and looked furtively at their phones. I had another pint and watched expectantly as the 3pm's kicked off, expecting goal flashes from Bolton every five seconds as we cut through their under 18's like surgeons performing on bits of sponge cake. It was a long 19 minutes.
Top of the league and it's still August. Terry is coming next Saturday. He's even sitting in Sir Alf upper. He's hopeful of a good result. The last time he came, we drew. He's treating himself as our lucky omen. Our bet wasn't that lucky this week, but we've still got £700 odd quid in the kitty. Trouble is, arranging to meet to do it could be tricky in the future. Unless I fancy a pint on a Wednesday evening. I might just do......... |  |
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