Last Orders

  It’s an old coaching inn, tarted up and buggered about. But I don’t make no jokes.

  It’s warm and glinty and chattery inside. Vince says, ‘I’ll get ’em,’ before we’re hardly through the door. ‘You take this, Ray.’ He hands me the carrier bag. ‘Grab that table over there. Pints all round and a shortie for you, Vic?’

  He pulls out his wallet and steps up to the bar, like everyone round here knows Vince Dodds.

  There’s a barmaid with a white blouse and cherry red lipstick.

  We go to the table. We hear Vince say, ‘Any grub going, darling?’ He wasn’t ever one for speaking soft but maybe he means us to hear. He cocks his head in our direction. ‘Three old codgers to look after, and one extra who aint eating.’ The barmaid looks our way, puzzled, then back at Vince, as if she’s not sure whether to smile or what. I can’t see Vince’s face but I know he’s looking at her with that special look he has, like he knows he might seem just a bit ridiculous but he’s daring her to make the mistake of thinking he really is.

  Like when he said, ‘Wanna do a deal on the yard?’

  She reaches over for some menu cards, her face a bit pink. I can hear Vince thinking, ‘Nice jubbies.’

  We start on our drinks, then we order our nosh. Then Vic gets in another round. Then the food arrives: jumbo sausage, beans and chips for me and Lenny, steak and chips for Vince, quiche of the day for Vic. I reckon today he should eat meat. The barmaid brings over the plates and stretches across and Vince says, ‘Looks a treat, sweetheart,’ with his face in her armpit, and none of us says a thing. There’s a strand of blonde hair that falls down her cheek like it’s not meant to but it’s meant to at the same time. Then we eat up and drink up and Lenny and I light up ciggies and Lenny gets in a round and it seems like we’ve always known the Bull in Rochester and it’s always known us, and we’re all thinking the same thing, that it’s a pity we can’t just carry on sitting here getting slowly pickled and at peace with the world, it’s a pity we’re obliged to take Jack on to Margate. Because Jack wouldn’t have minded, it’s even what he would’ve wanted for us, to get sweetly slewed on his account. You carry on, lads, don’t you worry about me. If he was here now he’d be recommending it, he’d be doing the same as us. Forget them ashes, fellers. Except if he were here now there wouldn’t be no problem, there wouldn’t be no obligation. There wouldn’t be no ashes. We wouldn’t even be here in the first place, half-way down the Dover road.

  Lenny says, ‘It’s a crying shame he aint here,’ like Jack was planning on it but something else came up.

  ‘He’d’ve appreciated it,’ Vince says.

  ‘He shouldn’t’ve hurried off like he did,’ I say, entering the spirit.

  ‘Daft of him,’ Lenny says.

  Vic’s gone quiet.

  ‘Crying shame,’ Lenny says.

  It’s as though, if we keep talking this way, Jack really will come through the door, any second now, unbuttoning his coat. ‘Well, had you all fooled, didn’t I?’

  Then Vic says, like it’s a truth we’re not up to grasping, that has to be broke gently, ‘If he was here, we wouldn’t be, would we? It’s because he’s not that we are.’

  ‘All the same,’ Lenny says.

  ‘He’d’ve appreciated it,’ Vince says.

  Lenny looks at Vince.

  ‘If it weren’t for him we wouldn’t be here,’ Vince says. ‘We wouldn’t be here without him,’ and he looks sort of snagged up by his own words. We’re all looking snagged up, like everything means one thing and something else at the same time.

  I say, ‘I’ve got to take a leak.’

  But it’s not just to take a leak. I find the Gents and I unzip, then I feel my eyes go hot and gluey, so I’m leaking at both ends. It’s cold and damp and tangy in the Gents. There’s two condom machines, one says ‘Glowdom’ and one says ‘Fruit Cocktail’. It’s be-kind-to-your-pecker day. There’s a frosted window with a quarter-light half open so I get a peek of a bit of wall, a bit of roof, a bit of tree and a bit of sky, which isn’t blue any more, and I think for some reason of all the pissers I’ve ever pissed in, porcelain, stainless steel, tarred-over cement, in pubs and car parks and market squares up and down the country, wherever there’s a racecourse to hand. There’s always a frosted quarter-light, chinked open, with a view of the back end of somewhere, innyards, alleyways, with some little peephole out on life. Racecourse towns. It’s when you stand up to piss you can tell how pissed you are. A drink or two helps for putting on a bet. A drink or three buggers your judgement. When I can’t get to sleep I tick off in my head all the racetracks I’ve been to, in alphabetical order, and I see the map of England with the roads criss-crossing. AscotBrightonCheltenham-DoncasterEpsom.

  I shake myself out and zip myself up again. I sniff and I run my sleeve across my face. Some other punter comes in, a young feller, but I don’t reckon he sees, or thinks twice if he does. Old men get pissy eyes. He gets out his plonker like a young feller does, like it’s a fully operational piece of machinery.

  Well, that’s that over with. Crying’s like pissing. You don’t want to get caught short, specially on a car journey.

  But as I head back into the bar and I see them at the table, with the barmaid collecting glasses, nice arse an’ all, and all the bar-room clobber, brass rails, pictures on the wall, of a pub I’ve never been in before and won’t ever be in again, it’s as though I’m looking at them like I’m not here. Like it’s not Jack, it’s me and I’m looking on, afterwards, and they’re all talking about me. HaydockKempton. Like I’m not here but it’s still all there, going on without me, and all it is is the scene, the place you pass through, like coachload after coachload passing through a coaching inn. NewburyPontefract.

  I say, ‘Same again, fellers?’

  Vic’s looking at me. He looks like he’s thinking.

  Vince says, ‘Not me, Raysy,’ holding up a flat palm, all strict. ‘Unless you want to find another driver. You could get me a coffee. And a half-corona.’

  Lenny looks at Vince like he’s going to give a mock salute. He says, ‘And I’ll have a knickerbocker glory.’

  It’s always the third drink with Lenny.

  I order the drinks and ferry over the pints and Vic’s whisky.

  Vic says, ‘Just as well Amy didn’t come, she wouldn’t have planned on a piss-up.’

  Lenny says, ‘Is that whisky or tea you’re drinking there then, Viccy?’ He slurps some beer. ‘Jack wouldn’t begrudge us.’ Then he says, ‘All the same.’

  Vince says, ‘All the same what?’

  Lenny says, ‘He’d’ve appreciated it if his missis had carried out requirements.’

  I say, ‘That’s been settled. We’re doing it for her.’

  They all look at me as if they’re expecting a speech.

  I glug some beer.

  The barmaid brings over Vince’s coffee. He looks up and says, smiling, ‘Old ones are the worst, eh gorgeous?’

  ‘ “For” aint the point,’ Lenny says. ‘ “For” don’t apply. Some things is direct. None of us is next of kin, is we? None of us is close relative. Even Vincey aint close relative.’ And he looks at Vince like he wouldn’t look if he hadn’t had three pints of heavy. Vince is lighting his cigar. ‘Even Big Boy here aint next of kin, is he? Vincey here aint got no more claim to be here than any of us, have you, Big Boy? Specially as, if you ask me, there wasn’t no love lost in any case, not till Jack was on his last legs. There wasn’t ever no love lost, was there?’ Lenny’s face is all knotted up.

  Vince puffs on his cigar. He doesn’t look at Lenny. He pours the milk from the plastic thingummy into his coffee, then he tears the sugar sachet and tips out the sugar, slow and careful, concentrating, stirring all the while with his free hand. It’s like he doesn’t intend talking to any of us again.

  Lenny opens his mouth, as if there’s more to come, but something sort of clicks shut in his throat. ‘I’ve got to take a leak an’ all,’ he says. He gets up, sudden, looking
around like he’s dizzy. I jerk my thumb in the direction he should take.

  Vic says, ‘I was wondering—’

  You can trust Vic to do his peace-keeping act.

  Lenny slouches to the Gents. I wonder if he’s going to do some blubbing too.

  Vince shakes the sachet even though it’s empty, then screws it up. He looks up. ‘What was you wondering, Vic?’ He smiles, calm and polite, and sips his coffee.

  ‘I was wondering, as we’re close, if we could pop over to Chatham and see the memorial. I’ve never—’

  Vince looks at Vic. He raises his eyebrows slightly, he puffs his cigar. Vic’s face is serious and steady. You can’t ever tell with Vic.

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ Vince says. ‘Do you, Raysy?’ He could be chairing a committee. He gives a quick glance to me then back again to Vic. It’s like he’s forgotten all about Lenny. ‘If a man in your line don’t get enough of memorials.’ He smiles, then wipes off the smile quick, as if it wasn’t anything to smile over. ‘That’s why we’re here, aint we? To remember the dead.’

  ‘It means a detour,’ Vic says.

  Vince blows out smoke, thinking. ‘We can do detours.’

  Lenny comes back from the Gents. His face looks like it’s been having a fight with itself, like it don’t know what expression it should wear.

  He says, ‘My round, aint it? Same again, Vic? Ray? Vince? Another coffee? Something to go with it?’

  I reckon Lenny’ll need to do better than that.

  Vince glances up quick at Lenny but he don’t say nothing. He puffs his cigar, eyes narrowed, then he takes the stub from his mouth, there’s still a few puffs left, and crushes it in the ashtray. He says, ‘I don’t know about you, Lenny, but I’m here to take something to Margate, that’s what we’re all here to do. And Vic here would like us to pay a little extra call on the way, which I aint against, considering. We’re here to remember the dead.’ He looks at his watch. ‘Gone two fifteen. Now if you want to stay here drinking all afternoon’ – he sweeps his gaze round the table as if we’re all suddenly included in some plot against him, it’s not just Lenny – ‘that’s your business. But I’m going to the car right now and I’m driving to Margate. If you don’t want to come too, you better find out where the station is.’

  He takes a last sip of coffee. Then he gets up, unhurried, putting on his coat, rolling his shoulders so the cloth sits, tugging at the lapels. Then he walks out, not looking back, the door swinging to behind him. When Vince was a nipper his hero was Gary Cooper.

  We look at each other, not moving, though it’s plain we don’t have no choice.

  Vic gets up first, then I get up.

  Lenny says, ‘Tosshead,’ under his breath, not moving.

  Vic says, ‘You shouldn’t judge.’

  Then we notice the plastic bag, Rochester Food Fayre, lying on the seat and it’s as though a new spark comes into Lenny’s face, there’s a new look in his eye. He picks up the bag and grabs his coat. He’s the first of us to reach the door, though he pauses for a moment in front of it, waiting, as if he’s thought for a moment that Vince might be about to step back in. Then he pushes it open and we follow.

  Vince is walking back the way we came. The high street looks like a model. He isn’t looking back but it doesn’t seem like he’s keen to make too much ground. We follow him, Lenny scuttling on ahead with the bag.

  ‘Hey, Big Boy!’

  Vince don’t look back but his pace quickens and he hitches himself up a peg.

  ‘Hey, Big Boy!’ Lenny’s moving at a fair old lick, you wouldn’t think it. ‘You forgot something, didn’t you? You forgot something!’

  Then it’s as though Vince’s shoulders sag just as quickly as they perked up and though he keeps on walking it’s as if he can’t make no more headway, as if his leg’s tied to the end of a rope. He don’t look round, like his neck’s stuck. Then Lenny catches up with him and Vince turns his head slowly like someone else is having to wrench it round for him.

  ‘Forgot this, didn’t you? Forgot your coffee. You might think you can do without us but you’d look a bloody fool going to Margate without this.’

  RAY

  He says, ‘If it wasn’t for my mate Lucky there.’

  It’s that dark-haired nurse, the tasty one, Nurse Kelly. She’s come to change his drip. She holds the glucose pack like it’s something you throw in a game. Here, catch this. She has this gleam in her eye like she’s used to warding off remarks.

  He pulls the bed-shirt back over his shoulder where he’s shown her the old scar. He says, ‘I aint ever introduced you proper to my mate Lucky, have I?’

  She shoots me a smile.

  ‘We calls him Lucky but his real name’s Ray. Ray Johnson.’

  She says, ‘Hello Ray, hello Lucky. I’ve seen you around.’

  ‘Hear that, Ray? And, Ray, this is Joy. Joy Kelly.’

  It’s like we’re in his home and we’re his guests.

  ‘Joy by name and Joy by nature.’

  She smiles, like she hasn’t heard it a hundred times before.

  ‘Me and Raysy go back donkey’s, before you was a twinkle. Fighting Rommel. Lucky here saved my life, more than once.’

  ‘Aint true,’ I say. ‘Other way round.’

  ‘Owe my life to Lucky,’ he says.

  She reaches up to change the drip.

  ‘We calls him Lucky because he’s lucky to be with, and on account of if you want to put a bet on, he’s your man.’

  She hangs up the new drip.

  ‘It’s like me and Ray have got this bet on that them’s stockings you’re wearing, not tights.’

  She don’t say nothing, fiddling with the drip. Then she says, That’d be telling, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Wasn’t telling I was thinking of.’

  ‘How are your pillows? Want propping?’

  She leans over him again and he says, ‘You must get some suggestions, working in this place,’ as though he hasn’t just made one.

  She says, ‘A girl knows when she’s safe.’

  ‘And a man knows when he aint no danger.’ He lifts the arm with the tubes going in it, like he’s surrendering. ‘But that don’t apply to Ray here, now. You’d be okay with Ray, Ray’s lucky. And he aint attached, like me.’ He lifts the arm again. ‘Nice pair of names that, nice pair. Ray and Joy.’

  She straightens herself up.

  ‘He’s a little man but—’

  ‘That’s you done,’ she says. ‘I’ll take this.’

  It’s his bottle of piss. It’s all dark and bloody.

  ‘You see, Ray. All she does is take the piss.’

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ she says, moving off. She gives me another, head-shaking smile.

  He says, ‘I reckon you’re on there, Raysy, I reckon you’re on. Don’t say I don’t know how to fix you up.’

  CHATHAM

  Lenny says, panting, ‘He never said it was up no bleeding hill.’

  He never did, and he never said he didn’t know where it was. When we stop and ask, they say, There it is, on top of that hill, see, you can’t miss it, naval memorial, white tower. It’s sticking up like a lighthouse for all to see, with a green ball on top instead of a beacon, it’s a landmark. Except no one says how you get there and there aren’t no signs. It’s a funny memorial that no one remembers the way to.

  So we trundle round half Chatham town and half Chatham dockyard with this hill in between, and Vince is filming, though he was fuming in the first place, on account of Lenny. He’s trying not to fume extra at Vic, he’s trying to look the soul of patience for Vic, out of compensation for Lenny. Lenny says to Vic, ‘Didn’t they teach you no navigation in the Navy then?’ And Vic’s sitting there in the front again because this was his idea, all his idea, and it’s looking as though he’s sorry he ever spoke. But I reckon even that could be serving Vic’s purpose: diversionary tactics, the blame on him for once, taking the heat away from Vince and Lenny. Except Vince is fuming like a grill pan. I
reckon Vic is making a sacrifice, he makes a good martyr, and anyhow there must be some old lost mates of his with their names chalked up on that memorial for having made their own sacrifice, as they call it, once, so it don’t do to deny them. If we ever get there.

  We finally find this car park, half-way up the hill, just the other side of the Town Hall. But though it’s just the other side of the Town Hall, it’s as though Chatham stops and the wilderness begins. It’s as though Chatham wasn’t ever nothing more than a camp. There’s just a low, scrubby wood with a muddy path leading up through it to where the memorial ought to be, except you can’t see it because of the trees, no signs, no nothing. And the only advantage of the trees and of the fact that it looks like somewhere no one ever goes unless they’re up to no good, is that, what with the beer we’ve drunk and the to-ing and fro-ing in a state of agitation round Chatham, Lenny and I need to piss again badly. So, soon as we’re out of sight of the car park, we strike off the path to get the benefit.

  He says, ‘He never said it was up no bleeding hill,’ panting and pissing at the same time. ‘And I know we’re doing Jack a turn, but I never knew it was Remembrance Day either.’

  I say, ‘Okay for Vic. It’d take a bit more doing, wouldn’t it, for us to pay respects to our lot?’

  He says, ‘I aint so sure, way things are going.’

  He breathes hard, though we haven’t come so far. His face looks like strawberry jam. Vic’s up ahead, walking on all by himself, determined, as if he’s trying to put on a proper show. I don’t suppose it helps when he looks round and sees Lenny and me taking a slash in the undergrowth. Whisky puts you at an advantage. He turns and presses on, though you can see him puffing too, and Vince is way on ahead of Vic, all in a huff of his own, not looking back, like he’s team leader and he’s not going to wait for a bunch of walking wounded, he just wants to get to the top quick and get it over with.