A wet and windy July day, the dust blown around the garden, the rain hammering the windows and the bald brown patches of lawn outside. Birds huddled in pathetic solitude, puffed up like spiny fish in a coral reef. They ignored the bacon rinds and the stale bread until mid-morning, when they ate, pecking disconsolately, looking like stragglers at the sauce stand at the burger van behind Sir Alf. I'd not run to cheap ketchup and there were no paper napkins or bits of loose wet fried onion fluttering on the wind. Still, it mostly all went.
My third cup of coffee was blacker than I'd've really liked. The last of the milk was a lot less than I'd remembered. That, and the lack of bread, decent cheese (not the soapy bits of cheddar and the furry camembert that, like Mastermind, I'd started but didn't finish) or the terminal lack of ham, pickle, crisps or mayonnaise, drove me to risk Tesco at 10am. By the time I emerged into the wind and rain, I was seventy quid lighter and chastened by folks in surgical masks. There's no joy to food shopping any more. Everyone looks like they're in prep to do surgery on some bloke's chalfonts.
Tel didn't come on Friday night so I saved a fair bit of my shopping. I'm having a toasted cheese'n'pickle sarnie later. With some salt and vinegar flavoured crisps and a beer. He didn't come because he wasn't working. We've reached the nadir of his working life. He's now officially retired. And, with the boozers now open again, we spent yesterday celebrating.
I got a text on Friday afternoon, which I didn't fully understand. "Come home at home know. Work over at home". Perplexed, I rang him. "Orlrigh'?" he said, clearly in the garden due to the sound of air behind him. "Thass it, packed it in! No more van, no more stoopid journeys ter the four corners of Angleear. They gave us 'undred'n'fifty quid in Fen'ick vouchers, a big card they all signed and a bottle of brandy from Ray and the lads. That was good'f'em. Di'nt 'ave ter do all that". He paused to swig from a can, the liquid swilling down like dirty water in an unplugged sink. "Aint comin'ter yours ternight" he said apologetically. "Wife'n'me fancy fish'n'chips from the local, wiv a few wallies an' a bit of their curry sauce. An' I'll see yer darn the local at 12 termorra anyway". We exchanged pleasantries and he hung up.
Saturday. Yesterday. Windy. I was up at 7am, feeding birds and doing the recycling bits, crushing cans and clattering bottles into various red, green and black bins. They don't take the bottles, our dustmen. I have to nip 'em down the tip. The local one's like queuing for free money. There's generally an hour's wait. So I do it when they reach epic proportions, like two binfuls and a couple of cardboard boxes full. I'd hit that yesterday. Reached and beached. So I nipped 'em down yesterday just as they opened and was the only punter. They think I'm an alcoholic, the orange-fluorescent bibbed blokes who work there. They made some sarky comments about 'good nights' and 'shame yer can't get ten pees on empties any more, we'd all be orf ter the Bahamas just on yours alone'. I smiled and hoped they weren't calling the police to report a drunk-driver when I left.
I got the papers. Load of rubbish, even the sport pages. I had marmalade on toast and a big pot of tea. Then I cleaned the house, speculatively, vowing to do a better job tomorrow as I'm off on leave next week. Then it was eleven, so I did a few crosswords and sudokus and sat watching the blue tits navigating the bird bath.
At twelve, I left. I'd told Tel 12pm just so he could be in there first, as he likes to chat up the barmaids and have a few grumbles with Jamie the landlord. I got there at 12.20 to find three old blokes sat on their own at tables, supping from pints of IPA and chatting to Jamie from afar, like prisoners in American movies behind the plate glass. The bar had perspex panels so it resembled a goldfish tank. The two barmaids came out in masks to serve and bring beer and food. Tel hadn't arrived so I sat at our usual table and ordered a pint. It came, eventually, along with the smart card reader. I ordered another two and paid for them in one go. £12.30. They bought the other two just as I was draining the first. 12.45pm. No sign of Tel.
He arrived just after 1pm. Sweating, taking off his YSL gilet, eyeing the pint I'd placed opposite me. "Blimey" he said, looking around. "See the old clientele aint improved since March then?".
He drank his pint with an 'ahhhh' of satisfaction and reached into the carrier bag he'd put next to him on the spare seat. 'Ave a butchers at that" he said, pulling out a huge card with "Sorry you're leaving" on it and a picture of a cartoon rabbit driving a sports car away from a crowd of waving rabbits. Some of the crowd were wiping away tears with little hankies. Inside, it was like a school teacher's remedial class homework book. Some had written indecipherable comments. One from Ray read "Enjoy retirment you old bastad!" Another, from someone with a signature so unreadable it could have been done by a GP, wrote "Terry, you aint never gona go to Grimsby". There was one from an 'Aimee-Lee" who'd written 'Luv ya Tel, come back and see us sometime" and signed it in a rounded hand with big O's above the I's and several kisses, then, clearly wearing lippy, she'd anointed the card with a proper 'kiss'. "I aint shown it ter the wife" admitted Tel, reaching for his pint.
I gave it back and he shoved it back in the carrier, in the envelope it came in. Jamie the landlord came over and stood a good ten feet away as he chatted to us through his black mask. He looked like something out of Mortal Kombat, with his topknot and shaved bonce and his sleeveless vest. Tel asked him if he was OK and he nodded and then spoke about the food options, his mask rippling as he spoke. He was doing a reduced menu, he explained, which didn't include any of the mains on the normal one. "Are yer doin' ribs?" asked Tel. Jamie nodded. "Two full racks then, I'll 'ave the barbecue sauce wiv mine, 'e'll 'ave the smoky chilli" (pointing a thumb at me). He couldn't find his bank card so I paid. Then he found it in his wallet and ordered four pints of lager and a bag of dry roasted.
The food took an age, so we'd finished the two pints each and the dry roasted nuts. There was no telly on, no music, and the pool table was all taped off, like a murder scene. The quiz machine was on and, as it was close to us, we each put a £2 coin in. It clanked through and back out so we did it a few more times, then Tel found two £1 coins and tried them. It worked. We got through to the money round first time and won £5, but when we came to withdraw it, the machine made a buzzing sort of noise and then a siren went off. Jamie came over. "Sorry, aint topped it up since it was last on". He switched it off and said he'd take a fiver off our next order.
More people came in, non-locals, asking for food and beer in the garden as it was now quite warm and sunny. More and more came in. The beer garden was heaving when I went for a piss at three. Tel and I did a footy bet just before it. He did Man Utd, Leicester, Brentford and Leeds. I did Stoke and Fulham. We watched the Leicester game on his phone, until he got bored and switched it off. We had twenty on four, a tenner on six and fifteen on my two. They all won, although Tel had a mini-heart attack when Bournemouth went 1-0 up. He showed me his phone later and we now had £2890 in the account. "Chrissmuss'll be a laugh anyway" he said, smiling.
We talked about the proposed US trip next year. "Tone's back on" he said, as if he'd just remembered it. ""E'n the missus want the kids to go away early part of July, ter Italy. So e's free come September when we go. E's gotta fortune ter spend'n'll, 'is rebate from the tax an' 'e's got two insurances maturin' in June, so 'e'll 'ave a bit to play wiv. Trouble is..." and here he became confidential, "'e wants ter go ter Vegas. I hadn't factored that in, like. Expensive is Vegas. So f'your not up for it, let me know now an' I can tell 'Im". He winked at me, He doesn't fancy Vegas either. I've been before. It's not really a city you go back to once you've been, unless you like spending days playing fruities and not winning much, and we could do that at Clacton.
We drank up and had brandies and then, with more people crowding in at seven, we went. We went to the Thai for a takeaway and then got a taxi back to Tel's to eat it. Mrs Tel was amenable and had a few of my cigarettes and we joked about the pub and the amount of people in it, and she tutted and said how mad people were to be crowding in just because they could, and I agreed. We were both merry and the beers made way for brandy. I left at eleven. I couldn't walk with any great confidence and so got a cab back.
"They're open again and I've stopped work" said Tel happily as we parted. We made arrangements to meet up on Monday afternoon for another session. I might be needing my share of our winnings long before Xmas at this rate. Still, I've got Tel sort of back. |  |
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