Tales from the Dun Cow 3
by MuncasterMonkey
55. For One Night only!
I have another entry in Toby’s Book of Opprobrium. He says he respects and appreciates frank opinion, but it seems to me that's only when it chimes with his.
‘And lo!’ Andy declaims, ‘He who pisseth off his friends shalt be an outcast!’
Toby nods and jabs a finger at me, ‘And must buyeth his own drinks!’
’Why don’t you go then Andy!’
‘I am - looking forward to it!’
‘Well I’m sorry, but seeing some group from the late seventies at some soulless leisure centre, creaking and straining through a thin back catalogue would be just…depressing.’
‘Soulless leisure centre is it? Depressing?’
‘Yes, and sad, even if they are free tickets - that won’t make them sound any better. They should move over, give new talent a chance.’
‘What talent? They're all nobodies!’
‘Maybe to you…everybody is somebody Toby!’
‘When everyone is somebody, then no one’s anybody.’ he rebuts.
He’s got me. ’That’s a good ‘un!’ Andy toasts, ‘Where’d you get that from…matchbox?’
‘Gilbert...’
‘Gilbert who?’
‘Gilbert you know…or maybe Sullivan…one of the opera blokes. And anyway, you know I don’t smoke any more.’
‘I’ll take a free ticket to Gilbert and Sullivan any day.’
Toby goes all basilisk on me, ’Don’t want much do you?’
‘Beermat?’ Andy suggests.
Toby redirects the stare, ’I’m more cultured than you give me credit for, Andy.’
Andy stands and bows, ‘I apologise’. He sits down, ‘One of those tear-off calendars then?’
‘Well, no-one's no-one.’ I cool tone, underscored defensively.
‘You’re wrong and you know it!’ Toby triumphs, ‘Do you ever watch I’m a celebrity stuff - you know, cook off, bake off, jungle off, mastermind off and all that?’
‘None of the above.’
‘Why not?’
‘They’re not my kind of programmes…’
‘Oh! Quelle surprise! Do I detect some snobbery?’
‘You detect discrimination, as in I prefer not to watch crap. And even if they were actual ‘celebrities’, they couldn’t redeem it.’
'Maybe for you...so are you saying they're not celebrities then?'
I shrug but Toby knows he's got me again, 'Hah! I refer you to my mate Gilbert!’
’I refer you to my mate Warhol!’ My touché falls short.
‘Andy?’
‘What?’
'Not you Andy! The other Andy, Andy Warhol!’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s spinning in his grave…’ I say, ‘…fame and five minutes aren’t what they were.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘It’s even more ephemeral now, compressed, nothing lasts!’
‘The group on at the leisure centre have lasted!’ Toby digs.
‘I bet they haven't lasted well - who are they again?’
Toby has gone blank and can't recall the name, I try not revelling in minor key. ’Er…this is ridiculous!…Spanish-sounding…help me out Andy!’
‘Warhol?’
‘No, you!'
Andy tries prompting, 'Los...Los…come on Toby!…Los…Los...'
‘Los Geriatricos?' I offer. Their look surpasseth all misunderstanding. 'I'll get them in shall I?'
56. Enjoy yourself
I thank my earlier, cooler self for the handkerchief in my top pocket, it's needed for brow mopping, the pork pie hat for face fanning. The hat and electric side of blue suit are getting an outing for the Ska & Reggae night. There's not been a tune I haven't wanted to dance to so I'm radiating a steady wattage. The beady-glassed beer goes down in long, thirst-cracking swallows. Georgie leans in to catch some of the fanning.
'You two were giving it some!' Toby says.
'Get yourself up and have a dance!'
Toby holds his beer to his chest with both hands, 'I think we're a bit old for this.'
'Speak for yourself! I don't feel old.'
'You will tomorrow!'
I wave the thought aside, ’What are you saving tomorrow for then?'
I'm wondering whether Andy or Toby will get off their backsides other than for the bar when Olga grabs Andy's hand and drags him away to dance. Taking her cue from Olga, Carol does the same with Toby who looks as if he's being taken to face a firing squad. It took some cajoling to get us all to The King’s Head’s dance night and of the six of us only Andy and Toby haven’t been up on their feet yet. Seeing them now, I guess this will be their tick-box foray; they aren't moving freely, or well. And I'm still miffed at Toby for having a pop at my sartorial choices, 'How can anyone who dances like that have the front to take the piss out of how I'm dressed?'
Georgie lays a hand on my arm, 'I think you showed admirable restraint...for you. But it's Toby, he doesn't mean it. He's sweet really.'
'To the "laydeeze" maybe, but he if he dishes it out he should expect to take it too; seeing him dance is like I've been given a free hit.'
'Just behave yourself!'
I gesture a silent 'ta-da!' towards the dance floor, 'Have a look! It's like watching an Ent dance!'
'You're just horrible!' Georgie laughs in a despite myself kind of way.
'I think he's just invented the Boris Karloff skank...'
Georgie hides her giggling behind a hand as they return to our table.
'My round,' I say. 'What's yours Toby, pint?' He nods. 'Teak oil?' The sharpness of Georgie's elbow in my ribs makes me gasp.
At the crowded bar, I'm served by a lass wearing a Two-tone T-shirt. She compliments me on how I'm dressed. 'Thanks. Looking good yourself' I reply and lean in for a word with her. She asks me to write it down on the piece of paper she passes me; she beams a smile and gives me a thumbs up.
My guess about Andy and Toby was right, they maintain a node of sat stillness as the rest of us make excursions to the dance floor. I've given up hope and we've just agreed we're all back to ours for whisky and Blue Note jazz when the DJ announces 'A special request for Toby. Toby here? Teak Oil Toby - this is for you.'
I'm already dragging him up with the first bars of Prince Buster singing 'Enjoy Yourself'. A little space in the merry dance floor crowd opens out for us. I mouth the words at Toby as we face each other and dance, 'Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think...'
Toby mouths back, 'I'm gonna get you for this.'
'You two were giving it some!' Toby says.
'Get yourself up and have a dance!'
Toby holds his beer to his chest with both hands, 'I think we're a bit old for this.'
'Speak for yourself! I don't feel old.'
'You will tomorrow!'
I wave the thought aside, ’What are you saving tomorrow for then?'
I'm wondering whether Andy or Toby will get off their backsides other than for the bar when Olga grabs Andy's hand and drags him away to dance. Taking her cue from Olga, Carol does the same with Toby who looks as if he's being taken to face a firing squad. It took some cajoling to get us all to The King’s Head’s dance night and of the six of us only Andy and Toby haven’t been up on their feet yet. Seeing them now, I guess this will be their tick-box foray; they aren't moving freely, or well. And I'm still miffed at Toby for having a pop at my sartorial choices, 'How can anyone who dances like that have the front to take the piss out of how I'm dressed?'
Georgie lays a hand on my arm, 'I think you showed admirable restraint...for you. But it's Toby, he doesn't mean it. He's sweet really.'
'To the "laydeeze" maybe, but he if he dishes it out he should expect to take it too; seeing him dance is like I've been given a free hit.'
'Just behave yourself!'
I gesture a silent 'ta-da!' towards the dance floor, 'Have a look! It's like watching an Ent dance!'
'You're just horrible!' Georgie laughs in a despite myself kind of way.
'I think he's just invented the Boris Karloff skank...'
Georgie hides her giggling behind a hand as they return to our table.
'My round,' I say. 'What's yours Toby, pint?' He nods. 'Teak oil?' The sharpness of Georgie's elbow in my ribs makes me gasp.
At the crowded bar, I'm served by a lass wearing a Two-tone T-shirt. She compliments me on how I'm dressed. 'Thanks. Looking good yourself' I reply and lean in for a word with her. She asks me to write it down on the piece of paper she passes me; she beams a smile and gives me a thumbs up.
My guess about Andy and Toby was right, they maintain a node of sat stillness as the rest of us make excursions to the dance floor. I've given up hope and we've just agreed we're all back to ours for whisky and Blue Note jazz when the DJ announces 'A special request for Toby. Toby here? Teak Oil Toby - this is for you.'
I'm already dragging him up with the first bars of Prince Buster singing 'Enjoy Yourself'. A little space in the merry dance floor crowd opens out for us. I mouth the words at Toby as we face each other and dance, 'Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think...'
Toby mouths back, 'I'm gonna get you for this.'
57. The Food of Love
‘You put that away a bit sheepish - up to no good?’
I was trying to google, forgetting I keep data roaming turned off and was hurriedly putting my phone away.
‘Anything you'd be ashamed to tell?’
I think about it long enough to offer encouragement. ‘Anything you wouldn't want Georgie to see?’
‘I wouldn't want her to see it as it happens.’
‘Come on, show me!’
‘What's it worth to you?’
‘Friendship. Even if you're only being virtually unfaithful, Toby is here to put you straight.’ He holds out his hand and I decide to pass him my phone.
‘How to crush peas!’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘You sure? How hard is it to crush a pea?' Toby demonstrates a rapid finger and thumb pinching motion.
'Struck me there would be technique to it. Don't want to end up with a puree.'
'Why not eat them as they come?'
'Might do that anyway. But Georgie and me were out for a meal the other week, and she kept going on about how nice the crushed peas were. Thought I'd do some with tomorrow's lunch.'
Toby nods sagely, 'Don't you ever think you're a bit, you know, over the top with the cooking stuff? I mean, aren't you overdoing it, spoiling her a bit?'
‘Spoiling her? A moment ago, I was virtually unfaithful! I feel compelled to spoil Georgie. Part of the deal as I see it. Makes up a bit for when I'm a pain in the arse. Luckily I enjoy it.'
'Being a pain in the arse?'
'Both. The other day we were walking Flynn when I caught sight of a woman giving me a hard look, I told Georgie that I didn't know how, but I’d managed to piss her off the other dog-walking day. Georgie turned to me and said "You piss everybody off, don't you?".'
'And she's right. How do you do it?'
'I suppose it's a gift.'
'Seriously, all those people can't be wrong.’
‘Maybe they’re the wrong people.’
‘Wrong people!’
‘For me.’
‘Even if there is such a thing as the “wrong people”, how do you know who they are?'
‘I piss them off.’
‘Have you ever thought you might be anti-social?’
‘I’m sat here drinking with you aren’t I?’
Andy arrives with a carrier bag he dumps on the table. ‘Glad you’ve arrived,’ Toby says, ‘He’s pissing me off!’
Andy doesn’t get why we find this amusing, instead going into the carrier bag to bring out two parcels, wrapped once upon a time fish and chips style in newspaper.
‘Listen!’ Toby says to Andy, ‘What do you think of someone who googles how to crush peas?’ and racks up his amusement in my direction.
‘Fresh herbs, lemon, bit of cooking liquor, maybe a bit of parmesan. Lovely!’ Toby looks pained. Andy pats one of the parcels, ‘But these are good enough as they are too.’ he turns to me, ‘Fresh from the garden, as promised. Brought you some too, Toby.’
Toby picks and unwraps a parcel to reveal a joyously green harvest of plump peas. I can’t resist breaking open a pod and eating some raw. ‘Delicious! You can do it Toby, crush some peas for Carol. Spoil her! Cook her a meal!’
‘Maybe I will,’ Toby sniffs ‘but it’ll be good plain cooking. I’m not crushing any peas.’
‘You don’t have to’ Andy says, ‘Just remember to take them out of their pods. Okay Heston?’
I point to Andy, ‘Right people.’
Toby looks pissed off.
‘You put that away a bit sheepish - up to no good?’
I was trying to google, forgetting I keep data roaming turned off and was hurriedly putting my phone away.
‘Anything you'd be ashamed to tell?’
I think about it long enough to offer encouragement. ‘Anything you wouldn't want Georgie to see?’
‘I wouldn't want her to see it as it happens.’
‘Come on, show me!’
‘What's it worth to you?’
‘Friendship. Even if you're only being virtually unfaithful, Toby is here to put you straight.’ He holds out his hand and I decide to pass him my phone.
‘How to crush peas!’
‘Nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘You sure? How hard is it to crush a pea?' Toby demonstrates a rapid finger and thumb pinching motion.
'Struck me there would be technique to it. Don't want to end up with a puree.'
'Why not eat them as they come?'
'Might do that anyway. But Georgie and me were out for a meal the other week, and she kept going on about how nice the crushed peas were. Thought I'd do some with tomorrow's lunch.'
Toby nods sagely, 'Don't you ever think you're a bit, you know, over the top with the cooking stuff? I mean, aren't you overdoing it, spoiling her a bit?'
‘Spoiling her? A moment ago, I was virtually unfaithful! I feel compelled to spoil Georgie. Part of the deal as I see it. Makes up a bit for when I'm a pain in the arse. Luckily I enjoy it.'
'Being a pain in the arse?'
'Both. The other day we were walking Flynn when I caught sight of a woman giving me a hard look, I told Georgie that I didn't know how, but I’d managed to piss her off the other dog-walking day. Georgie turned to me and said "You piss everybody off, don't you?".'
'And she's right. How do you do it?'
'I suppose it's a gift.'
'Seriously, all those people can't be wrong.’
‘Maybe they’re the wrong people.’
‘Wrong people!’
‘For me.’
‘Even if there is such a thing as the “wrong people”, how do you know who they are?'
‘I piss them off.’
‘Have you ever thought you might be anti-social?’
‘I’m sat here drinking with you aren’t I?’
Andy arrives with a carrier bag he dumps on the table. ‘Glad you’ve arrived,’ Toby says, ‘He’s pissing me off!’
Andy doesn’t get why we find this amusing, instead going into the carrier bag to bring out two parcels, wrapped once upon a time fish and chips style in newspaper.
‘Listen!’ Toby says to Andy, ‘What do you think of someone who googles how to crush peas?’ and racks up his amusement in my direction.
‘Fresh herbs, lemon, bit of cooking liquor, maybe a bit of parmesan. Lovely!’ Toby looks pained. Andy pats one of the parcels, ‘But these are good enough as they are too.’ he turns to me, ‘Fresh from the garden, as promised. Brought you some too, Toby.’
Toby picks and unwraps a parcel to reveal a joyously green harvest of plump peas. I can’t resist breaking open a pod and eating some raw. ‘Delicious! You can do it Toby, crush some peas for Carol. Spoil her! Cook her a meal!’
‘Maybe I will,’ Toby sniffs ‘but it’ll be good plain cooking. I’m not crushing any peas.’
‘You don’t have to’ Andy says, ‘Just remember to take them out of their pods. Okay Heston?’
I point to Andy, ‘Right people.’
Toby looks pissed off.
58. Double Top
‘Is that my phone or yours?’
‘Mine’ Georgie replies. ‘Hello Carol.’ I hear a flutter of conversation as I’m putting on my coat. Georgie tells me that our meal is delayed and to give it a good forty minutes. ‘Carol says Toby is in a bit of a state in the kitchen and that the swearing is terrible. Better to wait it out a bit…and can we let Andy and Olga know?’ I leave my coat on and call Andy. We agree to meet at The Dun Cow and check the state of play after an aperitif.
We talk about recent meetings, compliment each others’ you look nice togs and ponder what may have prompted Toby to chose this day to invite us. I suggest it was our talk of crushed peas and the challenge to cook Carol a meal.
‘It won’t be to celebrate any darts success.' Andy says, 'Did you hear he got beaten in the final?’ I had. Toby thrives on competing and once the cricket team folded, he tried to get a pub darts team going. He’s good. For the benefit of the company, I relate the conversation he had with the landlord. ‘It would be great if we could get this spirit really going, get some more pub games here. Crib boards and cards on the tables, dominoes. Make it more like pubs used to be.’
‘OK’ says the landlord, ‘let’s have a look at the colour chart.’
‘Colour chart?’
‘Foster and Ballcock’s the way pubs used to be colour chart…for the paintwork.’ Toby shrugs. ‘Got to do the ceiling at least. What do you fancy, Hint of Tar? Smoky Black?’ Nevertheless, he sponsored a Dun Cow darts competition to test interest. Georgie takes a call from Carol to let us know ’It’s safe to come now.’
The aromas beyond the front door are mouthwatering. Toby has put on a curry night and is keen to point out ‘Everything done from scratch, every last ingredient and method. None of your ready made sauces or powders!’
Carol adds, ’I can vouch for that, you should see the kitchen!’
We eat, talk, drink and be merry. I think the meal is a triumph, done with style, and say so, ‘Credit where it’s due Toby, that was wonderful.’ I move to toast him but my glass is empty. Toby disappears to the kitchen and we hear a cork pulled. ‘I won this at darts the other night.’
‘What did the winner get?’ Andy asks mischievously.
‘Bottle of whisky. But this is a nice drop.’ Toby holds the bottle up to read the label. ‘French. I always think the French do the best wine.’
‘What’ll it cost you after Brexit?’ Andy wonders.
Toby sighs despondently and admits that even as a full-on Brexiteer, he now believes ‘Leaving is turning out more UK cockup than EU conspiracy.’
‘That reminds me.’ I say reaching into my pocket for an envelope to give him, ‘Just a little something by way of thanks.’
Toby spills the three Union Jack dart flights onto the white linen. ‘Hope you like them’ I say, ‘I was going to get you some UKIP ones but they wouldn’t go near the centre.’ Toby takes it with a chuckle. ’You know,’ I continue, ‘No good with numbers…kept veering off to the right.’ Sensing I have pushed Toby too far into discomfort, I ask Georgie to get the thing from her handbag, ’Here’s your real little something.’ she says. Toby seems chuffed with the trophy, a small, metal presentation cup from a charity shop that I had engraved, Runner up - I was robbed.
’Thank you. I might even forgive your Brexiteer jibes.’
Andy pings his empty glass, ’On the subject of Brexiteers, any more of that French wine going D’Artagnan?’
‘Mine’ Georgie replies. ‘Hello Carol.’ I hear a flutter of conversation as I’m putting on my coat. Georgie tells me that our meal is delayed and to give it a good forty minutes. ‘Carol says Toby is in a bit of a state in the kitchen and that the swearing is terrible. Better to wait it out a bit…and can we let Andy and Olga know?’ I leave my coat on and call Andy. We agree to meet at The Dun Cow and check the state of play after an aperitif.
We talk about recent meetings, compliment each others’ you look nice togs and ponder what may have prompted Toby to chose this day to invite us. I suggest it was our talk of crushed peas and the challenge to cook Carol a meal.
‘It won’t be to celebrate any darts success.' Andy says, 'Did you hear he got beaten in the final?’ I had. Toby thrives on competing and once the cricket team folded, he tried to get a pub darts team going. He’s good. For the benefit of the company, I relate the conversation he had with the landlord. ‘It would be great if we could get this spirit really going, get some more pub games here. Crib boards and cards on the tables, dominoes. Make it more like pubs used to be.’
‘OK’ says the landlord, ‘let’s have a look at the colour chart.’
‘Colour chart?’
‘Foster and Ballcock’s the way pubs used to be colour chart…for the paintwork.’ Toby shrugs. ‘Got to do the ceiling at least. What do you fancy, Hint of Tar? Smoky Black?’ Nevertheless, he sponsored a Dun Cow darts competition to test interest. Georgie takes a call from Carol to let us know ’It’s safe to come now.’
The aromas beyond the front door are mouthwatering. Toby has put on a curry night and is keen to point out ‘Everything done from scratch, every last ingredient and method. None of your ready made sauces or powders!’
Carol adds, ’I can vouch for that, you should see the kitchen!’
We eat, talk, drink and be merry. I think the meal is a triumph, done with style, and say so, ‘Credit where it’s due Toby, that was wonderful.’ I move to toast him but my glass is empty. Toby disappears to the kitchen and we hear a cork pulled. ‘I won this at darts the other night.’
‘What did the winner get?’ Andy asks mischievously.
‘Bottle of whisky. But this is a nice drop.’ Toby holds the bottle up to read the label. ‘French. I always think the French do the best wine.’
‘What’ll it cost you after Brexit?’ Andy wonders.
Toby sighs despondently and admits that even as a full-on Brexiteer, he now believes ‘Leaving is turning out more UK cockup than EU conspiracy.’
‘That reminds me.’ I say reaching into my pocket for an envelope to give him, ‘Just a little something by way of thanks.’
Toby spills the three Union Jack dart flights onto the white linen. ‘Hope you like them’ I say, ‘I was going to get you some UKIP ones but they wouldn’t go near the centre.’ Toby takes it with a chuckle. ’You know,’ I continue, ‘No good with numbers…kept veering off to the right.’ Sensing I have pushed Toby too far into discomfort, I ask Georgie to get the thing from her handbag, ’Here’s your real little something.’ she says. Toby seems chuffed with the trophy, a small, metal presentation cup from a charity shop that I had engraved, Runner up - I was robbed.
’Thank you. I might even forgive your Brexiteer jibes.’
Andy pings his empty glass, ’On the subject of Brexiteers, any more of that French wine going D’Artagnan?’
59. Mojo gone
I’m two doubles in by the time Andy and Toby arrive at The Dun Cow and reply ‘Another whisky’ when asked ‘What’s yours?’
Toby brings it to our table, ’Given up on beer?’
‘I feel like getting pissed.’
‘What’s up?’
I tell them Mojo died and we buried her in the garden, ’On a summered-up October Wednesday.’
‘The cat?’ Andy asks. I nod. ‘How old?
‘She was a few weeks shy of twenty.’
‘That’s a bloody good innings!’ he says.
‘I know. All our pets have lived to a good age, Trotsky, Ozzy, Cairo, Dexter, Mojo - they were family. But now all the pets we had when the kids weren't yet teens have gone, Mojo was the last of them.’
‘You must have looked after them well' Toby consoles.
‘We like to think so, but there’s nothing like death for getting you thinking about life.’
Andy nods. Toby says ‘Well, we’ve all got to go. You have to be phlegmatic about it.’
‘I am, and feel like getting phlegmatically pissed.’
‘How’s that going to help?’
‘Perspective, Toby.’
‘On what?’
‘I’m trying to get right with stuff like free prescriptions, hospital treatment for arthritis and having an old geezer’s B&Q card.’ Toby plunges into absence and I’m wondering about senior moments’ insidious ambitions on minutes, even hours, when he suddenly breaks surface with ’What do you mean get right?’
‘You know, feel positive about it all. Right now it seems a mostly cold and comfortless prospect. Hence the whisky.’ I drink.
’I suppose we should be grateful you didn’t go for gin to get pissed on!’ Andy says.
Toby is thoughtful, 'I know it was a much-loved pet but you can’t let them kicki…passing on bring you down.’
‘Tell Georgie that. Grief isn’t choosey about causes. Anyway it’s not just Mojo going, that put the tin lid on it; we went to the flicks Monday to see King of Thieves.’
‘That one about the Hatton Garden robbery?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘There you go!’ Toby perks, ‘A bunch of old blokes getting away with millions!’
‘They got caught.’ Andy informs.
‘Yeah, well, at least they still had it in them. You have to think positively.’ he taps his temple with a finger, ‘Age is all in the mind.’
‘Well mine is in my joints.’
‘And other places!’ Andy adds with a grimace.
‘That film…’
‘Good?’
‘...Michael Caine, Tom Courtenay, Michael Gambon…’
‘There you go again! Old but still got it!’
‘See it and make your own mind up, Toby. For me, not got it, without it, gone. Like watching acting from beyond the grave. If you remember them when they were young and want to feel mortal...’
‘Come on! it can’t be that bad!’
‘At the end there were clips of them in their twenties - it seemed cruel.’
‘I don’t know what you’re bothered about, I don’t know anyone else your age who has managed to not grow up!’
‘I’m not bothered about growing up Toby, it's the growing old. Second childishness and mere oblivion. Sans teeth, sans eyes...'
'...sans taste...' Andy continues.
'What's all this sans bollocks?'
I'm not sure if Toby knows why he has made us laugh but he's pleased he has and I love him for it.
‘Whisky?’ Andy asks. I give him a thumbs up.
‘Toby?’
‘Gin. Why not? I’m depressed now anyway.' he says, smiling.
Toby brings it to our table, ’Given up on beer?’
‘I feel like getting pissed.’
‘What’s up?’
I tell them Mojo died and we buried her in the garden, ’On a summered-up October Wednesday.’
‘The cat?’ Andy asks. I nod. ‘How old?
‘She was a few weeks shy of twenty.’
‘That’s a bloody good innings!’ he says.
‘I know. All our pets have lived to a good age, Trotsky, Ozzy, Cairo, Dexter, Mojo - they were family. But now all the pets we had when the kids weren't yet teens have gone, Mojo was the last of them.’
‘You must have looked after them well' Toby consoles.
‘We like to think so, but there’s nothing like death for getting you thinking about life.’
Andy nods. Toby says ‘Well, we’ve all got to go. You have to be phlegmatic about it.’
‘I am, and feel like getting phlegmatically pissed.’
‘How’s that going to help?’
‘Perspective, Toby.’
‘On what?’
‘I’m trying to get right with stuff like free prescriptions, hospital treatment for arthritis and having an old geezer’s B&Q card.’ Toby plunges into absence and I’m wondering about senior moments’ insidious ambitions on minutes, even hours, when he suddenly breaks surface with ’What do you mean get right?’
‘You know, feel positive about it all. Right now it seems a mostly cold and comfortless prospect. Hence the whisky.’ I drink.
’I suppose we should be grateful you didn’t go for gin to get pissed on!’ Andy says.
Toby is thoughtful, 'I know it was a much-loved pet but you can’t let them kicki…passing on bring you down.’
‘Tell Georgie that. Grief isn’t choosey about causes. Anyway it’s not just Mojo going, that put the tin lid on it; we went to the flicks Monday to see King of Thieves.’
‘That one about the Hatton Garden robbery?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘There you go!’ Toby perks, ‘A bunch of old blokes getting away with millions!’
‘They got caught.’ Andy informs.
‘Yeah, well, at least they still had it in them. You have to think positively.’ he taps his temple with a finger, ‘Age is all in the mind.’
‘Well mine is in my joints.’
‘And other places!’ Andy adds with a grimace.
‘That film…’
‘Good?’
‘...Michael Caine, Tom Courtenay, Michael Gambon…’
‘There you go again! Old but still got it!’
‘See it and make your own mind up, Toby. For me, not got it, without it, gone. Like watching acting from beyond the grave. If you remember them when they were young and want to feel mortal...’
‘Come on! it can’t be that bad!’
‘At the end there were clips of them in their twenties - it seemed cruel.’
‘I don’t know what you’re bothered about, I don’t know anyone else your age who has managed to not grow up!’
‘I’m not bothered about growing up Toby, it's the growing old. Second childishness and mere oblivion. Sans teeth, sans eyes...'
'...sans taste...' Andy continues.
'What's all this sans bollocks?'
I'm not sure if Toby knows why he has made us laugh but he's pleased he has and I love him for it.
‘Whisky?’ Andy asks. I give him a thumbs up.
‘Toby?’
‘Gin. Why not? I’m depressed now anyway.' he says, smiling.
60. Macho
I can’t believe Andy is hesitating, ‘It’s nothing to them, get yourself to the Docs.'
He squirms and shudders, ’It might be nothing to you but I don’t fancy having someone I don’t know interfering with me.’
'It's your prostate Andy! And it's investigating, intervening - don't be messing about with your health.'
'I just don't like being fiddled about with...down there.’
'Down there!' Toby mocks.
‘OK then! My back passage!’
Toby turns to me and does querying eyebrows, ’Encyclopaedia of Victorian Medical Terms?’
I nod, ‘Next to the entry for front bottom.'
Andy stoneys his face as Toby and me laugh at my puerile humour then says 'What if it's a woman?'
Toby looks at his watch and says 'No, it does seconds, minutes, hours and even dates.' We wait. 'I was just trying to check what century we're in. What if it's a woman!?'
'Rumour has it that not all doctors are men, Andy. Just concern yourself that the fingerer is a doctor.'
'Rumour has it women don't have prostates!'
‘And men don't have babies but they’ve delivered them. It really is a nothing process.’ I assure him, ‘Think of what women have to go through! I bet Olga thinks you're being pathetic.'
'I haven't shared my concerns with Olga.’
Now I look at Toby and return the eyebrows, he says ‘Get it sorted Andy or I’ll have to grass you to Olga and she’ll make sure you do.’
‘You’re right, I know you’re right it’s just…’
‘Just nothing!’ I say, ‘If you’re that bothered, I’m sure you can ask for a male doctor - though I didn't think you were so bashful. I didn’t know who would be doing it when I went to Marie Stopes for the snip.’
’Bashful? Dopey more like.’ Toby empties his glass. ‘I was going to have that done but didn’t get round to it…woman doctor?'
‘No but a lass held my hand while the Doc got to work.’
‘Comfort thing?’
‘Probably to stop people waving their hands about, punching the Doc or something.’
‘Painful?’
‘Apart from needing the anaesthetic topped up before he’d finished - and the smell of burning flesh - it was straightforward. Walked like John Wayne for a while but it was a doddle compared to my hernia op.’
‘I’ve had that one done.’ Toby says, running a memory hand below his belt, ‘Keyhole?’
‘No, the slicey one.’
‘Did they put you out?’ Andy asks.
‘No, local. They put a sheet up so I wouldn’t see what they were doing. But there was a big overhead operating light, all mirrored, I watched the whole thing.’
Andy does his squirm and shudder. ‘John Wayne again?’ Toby asks.
‘More like Gollum! They tell you it’s all simple - cut, chop, snip, sew or whatever - but they don’t tell you about the after effects.’
‘What after effects?’ Andy asks like he doesn’t want to know.
‘When I looked the next day, my dick was like a gone over banana!' Toby laughs extremely loudly, Andy is looking grey and clutching his tackle, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Went all black and curvy. Had to stand side-on when I went for a piss.’
Andy groans, ‘Jee-zuss!’
Toby twigs straight away, ‘Got a hernia as well, Andy?’
‘Double.' he says despondently, 'Both sides.’
‘Maybe you’ll be alright’ I say, ‘they could balance each other out and you'll hang straight.’
Andy gets up and collects our glasses, 'When I get back from the bar, we'll be talking about something else. OK?' His tone carries more threat than request but as soon as he is out of earshot, Toby says 'Did you read about that rugby player who carried on playing with a smashed testicle?'
It's my turn to squirm and shudder, 'Get lost!'
'True! I forget where I read it but, you know, what even is that? Smashed testicle!?’
'Sounds like something you'd read in a Guardian restaurant review.'
So we roundabout our way to food and are discussing the merits of pasta v potatoes when Toby jump cuts, 'I can take or leave scotch eggs but quite like black pudding.'
I don't need to look to know Andy is returning with drinks and back in earshot. I've been out-pueriled.
He squirms and shudders, ’It might be nothing to you but I don’t fancy having someone I don’t know interfering with me.’
'It's your prostate Andy! And it's investigating, intervening - don't be messing about with your health.'
'I just don't like being fiddled about with...down there.’
'Down there!' Toby mocks.
‘OK then! My back passage!’
Toby turns to me and does querying eyebrows, ’Encyclopaedia of Victorian Medical Terms?’
I nod, ‘Next to the entry for front bottom.'
Andy stoneys his face as Toby and me laugh at my puerile humour then says 'What if it's a woman?'
Toby looks at his watch and says 'No, it does seconds, minutes, hours and even dates.' We wait. 'I was just trying to check what century we're in. What if it's a woman!?'
'Rumour has it that not all doctors are men, Andy. Just concern yourself that the fingerer is a doctor.'
'Rumour has it women don't have prostates!'
‘And men don't have babies but they’ve delivered them. It really is a nothing process.’ I assure him, ‘Think of what women have to go through! I bet Olga thinks you're being pathetic.'
'I haven't shared my concerns with Olga.’
Now I look at Toby and return the eyebrows, he says ‘Get it sorted Andy or I’ll have to grass you to Olga and she’ll make sure you do.’
‘You’re right, I know you’re right it’s just…’
‘Just nothing!’ I say, ‘If you’re that bothered, I’m sure you can ask for a male doctor - though I didn't think you were so bashful. I didn’t know who would be doing it when I went to Marie Stopes for the snip.’
’Bashful? Dopey more like.’ Toby empties his glass. ‘I was going to have that done but didn’t get round to it…woman doctor?'
‘No but a lass held my hand while the Doc got to work.’
‘Comfort thing?’
‘Probably to stop people waving their hands about, punching the Doc or something.’
‘Painful?’
‘Apart from needing the anaesthetic topped up before he’d finished - and the smell of burning flesh - it was straightforward. Walked like John Wayne for a while but it was a doddle compared to my hernia op.’
‘I’ve had that one done.’ Toby says, running a memory hand below his belt, ‘Keyhole?’
‘No, the slicey one.’
‘Did they put you out?’ Andy asks.
‘No, local. They put a sheet up so I wouldn’t see what they were doing. But there was a big overhead operating light, all mirrored, I watched the whole thing.’
Andy does his squirm and shudder. ‘John Wayne again?’ Toby asks.
‘More like Gollum! They tell you it’s all simple - cut, chop, snip, sew or whatever - but they don’t tell you about the after effects.’
‘What after effects?’ Andy asks like he doesn’t want to know.
‘When I looked the next day, my dick was like a gone over banana!' Toby laughs extremely loudly, Andy is looking grey and clutching his tackle, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Went all black and curvy. Had to stand side-on when I went for a piss.’
Andy groans, ‘Jee-zuss!’
Toby twigs straight away, ‘Got a hernia as well, Andy?’
‘Double.' he says despondently, 'Both sides.’
‘Maybe you’ll be alright’ I say, ‘they could balance each other out and you'll hang straight.’
Andy gets up and collects our glasses, 'When I get back from the bar, we'll be talking about something else. OK?' His tone carries more threat than request but as soon as he is out of earshot, Toby says 'Did you read about that rugby player who carried on playing with a smashed testicle?'
It's my turn to squirm and shudder, 'Get lost!'
'True! I forget where I read it but, you know, what even is that? Smashed testicle!?’
'Sounds like something you'd read in a Guardian restaurant review.'
So we roundabout our way to food and are discussing the merits of pasta v potatoes when Toby jump cuts, 'I can take or leave scotch eggs but quite like black pudding.'
I don't need to look to know Andy is returning with drinks and back in earshot. I've been out-pueriled.
61. The season to be jolly
I cried off going to The Dun Cow due to aches and quakes in a few joints but Andy and Toby dropped by to rustle me up. Waiting for me to get it together, Toby picks up an Observer Magazine from the recycle pile by the door and riffling through it starts chuckling, ‘Oh dear! Do you really read this stuff? Listen to this Andy, "Two discs of raw cod have been marinated in a cool broth of green tea and ponzu, then dotted with wasabi mayo and fennel jam"!'Andy raises an eyebrow, ‘Mr Chips does that, but pricey, right up there with the scampi.’‘I have to admit,’ I say closing the front door behind me, ‘the paper does sometimes seem to be up its own arse.’Andy laughs an inward laugh, ‘How would you explain that expression to a foreigner?’Toby seeks clarification, ’One who doesn’t speak English?’‘Particularly! - Like the man we’re going to meet at The Dun Cow.’
‘Who’s that?’
Andy replies in voice-over, ‘The man with the see-through head’ and having piqued our interest, tells us at length about a flower-growers convention he attended many years ago and the conversation he struggled to maintain with a couple of guys from Iran. One of them knew a little English, the other none. Seeking to wheedle jealously guarded plant breeding secrets from Andy, little-English gamely wrestled with understanding and translating expressions like I know what’s on your mind and I can see right through you. ‘No-English suddenly goes all sour, pointing at me and tapping the side of his head.’
'International gesture for loco?’
‘I suppose…apparently no-English got the idea I said he had a see-through head.’
‘Ah!’ I say, ‘Lost in translation…hence your question earlier.’
‘He’s a Professor now, at some university. We keep in touch but Faraz has left me way behind. The see-through head thing is a standing joke.’
We’ve enjoyed the anecdote that’s brought us to the doors of The Dun Cow but as we push them open we hear a raised voice with the serrated edge of belligerence. A table tips to the floor, drink is spilled, a glass breaks. Andy lets a door go in my face as he rushes to Faraz’s aid. There’s a big man looming over a smaller man. The big man has an angry head atop a neck that spreads into the foothills of his shoulders. He’s wearing clothes chosen to display the results of an extreme affection for gyms and his reflection. His jogging pants are moulded to his buttocks, which look as if they could crack walnuts. But Andy steps up and looms over him, ‘
What’s going on?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?!’
‘This is my friend.’
‘Is your friend a terrorist?!’
’No! He’s a bo-tan-ist!’
‘Looks like a ter-ror-ist to me!’
Toby and me step between the big and bigger men, Faraz whips off his baseball cap and balaclava, making his shock of black hair stand on end like Stan Laurel, and says to the big man ’Look! See? It’s a joke about my see-through head!’
The big man’s eyes squint with distant concentration, I’m close enough to smell a generous application of powdery body scent and see a thread of blood pulse in his left temple. I feel nervous that things are going to kick off and reflect that I wanted to stay home and that I’m too old for all this crap and that when I wasn’t too old I wasn’t any good at it anyway. I try breaking the tension with a Michael Jacksonesque ’I’m a lover not a fighter!’ but it comes out way too squeaky and only serves to get more squint to think from the big man before he refixes his stare on Andy, ‘Is this another of your friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘A gay-friend?’
This guy is surely from AI casting or rent a cliché. I intuit that one of Andy’s sons being gay is about to give some emphasis to his response. I try again to defuse the situation, ‘You’re not my type.’ Big man turns his full bulk to me, which involves several seemingly involuntary pectoral twitches. In a moment of surreal fear for my safety, I ask him ‘Are you a local councillor?’
Andy and Toby burst out laughing.
And it all kicks off.
And I’m no good at it.
And I haven’t even touched a drop.
And Georgie won’t believe me.
But I remember getting a good dig in and shouting ’Merry fucking Christmas!’
And that’s what Toby put in the card with a snowman with a black eye he coloured in. I put it back on the shelf, wondering if it’s too soon to ask Georgie when the curfew will end.
‘Who’s that?’
Andy replies in voice-over, ‘The man with the see-through head’ and having piqued our interest, tells us at length about a flower-growers convention he attended many years ago and the conversation he struggled to maintain with a couple of guys from Iran. One of them knew a little English, the other none. Seeking to wheedle jealously guarded plant breeding secrets from Andy, little-English gamely wrestled with understanding and translating expressions like I know what’s on your mind and I can see right through you. ‘No-English suddenly goes all sour, pointing at me and tapping the side of his head.’
'International gesture for loco?’
‘I suppose…apparently no-English got the idea I said he had a see-through head.’
‘Ah!’ I say, ‘Lost in translation…hence your question earlier.’
‘He’s a Professor now, at some university. We keep in touch but Faraz has left me way behind. The see-through head thing is a standing joke.’
We’ve enjoyed the anecdote that’s brought us to the doors of The Dun Cow but as we push them open we hear a raised voice with the serrated edge of belligerence. A table tips to the floor, drink is spilled, a glass breaks. Andy lets a door go in my face as he rushes to Faraz’s aid. There’s a big man looming over a smaller man. The big man has an angry head atop a neck that spreads into the foothills of his shoulders. He’s wearing clothes chosen to display the results of an extreme affection for gyms and his reflection. His jogging pants are moulded to his buttocks, which look as if they could crack walnuts. But Andy steps up and looms over him, ‘
What’s going on?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?!’
‘This is my friend.’
‘Is your friend a terrorist?!’
’No! He’s a bo-tan-ist!’
‘Looks like a ter-ror-ist to me!’
Toby and me step between the big and bigger men, Faraz whips off his baseball cap and balaclava, making his shock of black hair stand on end like Stan Laurel, and says to the big man ’Look! See? It’s a joke about my see-through head!’
The big man’s eyes squint with distant concentration, I’m close enough to smell a generous application of powdery body scent and see a thread of blood pulse in his left temple. I feel nervous that things are going to kick off and reflect that I wanted to stay home and that I’m too old for all this crap and that when I wasn’t too old I wasn’t any good at it anyway. I try breaking the tension with a Michael Jacksonesque ’I’m a lover not a fighter!’ but it comes out way too squeaky and only serves to get more squint to think from the big man before he refixes his stare on Andy, ‘Is this another of your friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘A gay-friend?’
This guy is surely from AI casting or rent a cliché. I intuit that one of Andy’s sons being gay is about to give some emphasis to his response. I try again to defuse the situation, ‘You’re not my type.’ Big man turns his full bulk to me, which involves several seemingly involuntary pectoral twitches. In a moment of surreal fear for my safety, I ask him ‘Are you a local councillor?’
Andy and Toby burst out laughing.
And it all kicks off.
And I’m no good at it.
And I haven’t even touched a drop.
And Georgie won’t believe me.
But I remember getting a good dig in and shouting ’Merry fucking Christmas!’
And that’s what Toby put in the card with a snowman with a black eye he coloured in. I put it back on the shelf, wondering if it’s too soon to ask Georgie when the curfew will end.
62. The man to put the suffering into suffrage
I’ve been turning down invitations to The Dun Cow because I’m weary, tired trying to chase away pain with everything from herbs and electricity to incantations and copper. Thickened with opioid dullness, I’ve taken to solitary whisky drinking, rewatching favourite films and holding fractured conversations with books. Days are ragged, folding in on themselves, only to spread out anew, more creased and frayed than before. Winter has burdened my spirit and I’m targeting the equinox and death of the year’s dark half for an atavistic lift into light and life before venturing sociability again. But Toby wouldn’t take no for an answer this time, he has news - important news. But before he shares it, he points at my waiting pint and asks after me, ‘What have you been doing with yourself, you miserable git?’
‘I’ve been hibernating.’
‘Where, under a pile of leaves in the garden? Look at you!’
‘What do you mean? I’m dressed for the cold!’ I reply, taking in that Toby is very spruce.
’Is that bird shit on your trousers?’ Andy asks.
Toothpaste. I must have dribbled toothpaste. I catch sight of myself in a night-blacked window and reflect I should have stuck with the equinox. It’s been a while and I knock the table with clumsy unfamiliarity as I sit down, beer overtops glasses and Toby elaborately avoids the spill that might have spoiled his suit had I actually knocked the beer over and had it gone his way. He looks at me disapprovingly, ‘This is the kind of thing that happens when you become a hermit, you'll have to sharpen up if you're going to be on my ticket!'
I look enquiringly at Andy whose eyes return a twinkle of suppressed mirth from an otherwise wooden expression. Toby hands me a leaflet, ‘Just a first draft’. His name - in big, bold, business-like capitals - sits atop a beaming mugshot, beneath which is the instruction to vote for him, ’….”the Man to put the Man back in Manifesto"?' I read aloud with a sense of wonder and horror.
'What do you think...good eh?'
'Is there an election?'
‘Well, our local councillor has popped his clogs. He was useless anyway so I thought I’d give it a go on the basis that unlike the ones that keep getting in, I’ll not make a single promise that I won’t keep.’
‘You’d better not make a single promise then.’ Andy says.
‘Isn’t it the Tories that keep getting in?’ I ask, knowing it is.
Toby inhales deeply, puffs his cheeks, slaps his thighs, takes the plunge, ‘That’s part of my news, I’m going to stand as an Independent.’
This is news indeed from a man whose outfit of choice for fancy-dress parties has included a Margaret Thatcher wig and handbag. ’So…your membership of the Conservative Party…the Club…?’
Toby grimaces, ’I suppose I’ll have to give them up.’
‘I don’t know about you Andy, but I never thought I would see the day when Toby turned his back on the Tory Party.’
‘I haven’t! I’ll still vote for them, just not when I’m being an Independent’
‘No compromise there then!’
‘No more than with the Labour lot!’
‘They’re all full of crap!’ Andy wisdoms.
I do my best Richard Griffiths impersonation, ’…we’re at the end of an age. We live in a land of weather forecasts and breakfasts that set in. Shat on by Tories, shovelled up by Labour. And here we are, we three, perhaps the last island of beauty in the world.’
This lands a short silence upon us, during which we fruitlessly scan each other for signs of beauty.
’So are you going to support me or not, you know, help me out?’
’Sure Toby, I’ll help you - don’t do it!’
‘Good advice!’ Andy endorses.
‘No, I’ve set my mind on it!’
‘Well then,’ I say, ‘you’ve got to do something about your promotional stuff…the Man to put the Man back in Manifesto! I mean…really!’
‘OK, but it’s important I get it across that I mean what I say, that I’m the man for the job.’
Andy ponders, ’Perhaps you should change your name, then you could stand, lose, bury the shame and keep your Conservative membership as the real you.’
‘Andy’s idea is a good one, you need a name that gives people a sense of confidence, that fits the job you intend to do, what do they call it now? Nominative….’
‘Determinism.’
‘Thanks Andy. Yes, nominative determinism, like your man the Tory minister who has responsibility for Local Government…’ I nod meaningfully at Toby ‘…what’s his name now? James Brokenshire! That’s it.’
Andy chuckles grimly. Toby maintains his line in disapproval, ‘You don't take anything seriously do you?’
‘On the contrary Toby, I think I'm starting to recover from an overdose, thanks to you. I’ll get you a double.’
He shakes his head, despairing-style, and leaving the table I say, ‘Seriously now, that name thing, how about Manny Festo?’
‘Just bugger off and get the whiskies!’
I order Scotch for Andy, Irish for me and Canadian for Toby, but not before baffling the barman with ’Say friend, you got any more of that good sarsaparilla?’
It’s starting to feel familiar.
‘I’ve been hibernating.’
‘Where, under a pile of leaves in the garden? Look at you!’
‘What do you mean? I’m dressed for the cold!’ I reply, taking in that Toby is very spruce.
’Is that bird shit on your trousers?’ Andy asks.
Toothpaste. I must have dribbled toothpaste. I catch sight of myself in a night-blacked window and reflect I should have stuck with the equinox. It’s been a while and I knock the table with clumsy unfamiliarity as I sit down, beer overtops glasses and Toby elaborately avoids the spill that might have spoiled his suit had I actually knocked the beer over and had it gone his way. He looks at me disapprovingly, ‘This is the kind of thing that happens when you become a hermit, you'll have to sharpen up if you're going to be on my ticket!'
I look enquiringly at Andy whose eyes return a twinkle of suppressed mirth from an otherwise wooden expression. Toby hands me a leaflet, ‘Just a first draft’. His name - in big, bold, business-like capitals - sits atop a beaming mugshot, beneath which is the instruction to vote for him, ’….”the Man to put the Man back in Manifesto"?' I read aloud with a sense of wonder and horror.
'What do you think...good eh?'
'Is there an election?'
‘Well, our local councillor has popped his clogs. He was useless anyway so I thought I’d give it a go on the basis that unlike the ones that keep getting in, I’ll not make a single promise that I won’t keep.’
‘You’d better not make a single promise then.’ Andy says.
‘Isn’t it the Tories that keep getting in?’ I ask, knowing it is.
Toby inhales deeply, puffs his cheeks, slaps his thighs, takes the plunge, ‘That’s part of my news, I’m going to stand as an Independent.’
This is news indeed from a man whose outfit of choice for fancy-dress parties has included a Margaret Thatcher wig and handbag. ’So…your membership of the Conservative Party…the Club…?’
Toby grimaces, ’I suppose I’ll have to give them up.’
‘I don’t know about you Andy, but I never thought I would see the day when Toby turned his back on the Tory Party.’
‘I haven’t! I’ll still vote for them, just not when I’m being an Independent’
‘No compromise there then!’
‘No more than with the Labour lot!’
‘They’re all full of crap!’ Andy wisdoms.
I do my best Richard Griffiths impersonation, ’…we’re at the end of an age. We live in a land of weather forecasts and breakfasts that set in. Shat on by Tories, shovelled up by Labour. And here we are, we three, perhaps the last island of beauty in the world.’
This lands a short silence upon us, during which we fruitlessly scan each other for signs of beauty.
’So are you going to support me or not, you know, help me out?’
’Sure Toby, I’ll help you - don’t do it!’
‘Good advice!’ Andy endorses.
‘No, I’ve set my mind on it!’
‘Well then,’ I say, ‘you’ve got to do something about your promotional stuff…the Man to put the Man back in Manifesto! I mean…really!’
‘OK, but it’s important I get it across that I mean what I say, that I’m the man for the job.’
Andy ponders, ’Perhaps you should change your name, then you could stand, lose, bury the shame and keep your Conservative membership as the real you.’
‘Andy’s idea is a good one, you need a name that gives people a sense of confidence, that fits the job you intend to do, what do they call it now? Nominative….’
‘Determinism.’
‘Thanks Andy. Yes, nominative determinism, like your man the Tory minister who has responsibility for Local Government…’ I nod meaningfully at Toby ‘…what’s his name now? James Brokenshire! That’s it.’
Andy chuckles grimly. Toby maintains his line in disapproval, ‘You don't take anything seriously do you?’
‘On the contrary Toby, I think I'm starting to recover from an overdose, thanks to you. I’ll get you a double.’
He shakes his head, despairing-style, and leaving the table I say, ‘Seriously now, that name thing, how about Manny Festo?’
‘Just bugger off and get the whiskies!’
I order Scotch for Andy, Irish for me and Canadian for Toby, but not before baffling the barman with ’Say friend, you got any more of that good sarsaparilla?’
It’s starting to feel familiar.
63. For the birds
I suddenly feel that I'm CGI'd into an earlier Dun Cow. I’m stepping to the table just like I did last time, taking my pint just like I did last time - when Toby had big news - same steps, same take. Toby and Andy are sitting where they sat last time and every other time if they can. I was saved from my disconcertion fractalling all over the place by Toby. But it had already put a rogue wave into the eventide, starting with me wondering what situationists do about déjà vu and why?
‘I see you’ve lost the Scott of the Antarctic look then!'
‘Better?’ I do a mock flourish.
‘What colour do you call those?’ Toby demands, with an excessive show of distaste.
‘Turquoise - as you well know Toby as it’s Carole’s favourite colour.’
‘Bet she wouldn’t buy me jeans that colour though.'
’And Georgie wouldn’t buy them for me either, I do my own shopping.’
‘You mean you paid for those?’
So. Stage directions and props stay the same, costumes lighten, tone darkens. Toby seems antagonistic. I can feel the swell of that wave approaching again. My beat is off.
‘I’m grateful we have different tastes, Toby.’
'Clothes maketh the man!’ (testily).
'No man, man maketh the clothes.’ (lightly).
‘Manners maketh man!’ (emphatically).
With Andy’s last word, Toby raises his palms high, ‘Let’s change the subject!’
I see Toby has the index and middle fingers of his right hand taped together with a splint between them; I give Andy the ’Tell me what’s up?’ look.Andy shrugs, ‘There’s been a tragedy.’ Toby flashes him a warning look. ‘He's had a spat with Carol over their bird feeder.'
‘What did she do, break your fingers?’
Toby does indignant, ’No! I hung up some fat balls in those little nets and she said they looked like knackers!’
‘Just unusually far apart.’ Andy adds.
'Is she squeamish?' I ask.
‘But she’s replaced them with those coconut half things - same look! But bigger balls!’
‘And hairier!’ Andy adds.
‘Squeamish! So what’s with the fingers then?’ I ask.
‘Go on, tell him.’
‘He’ll only take the piss!’
‘What are friends for?’
So Toby grimaces and tries putting gravitas into narrating how he goes out canvassing for his independent councillor ambitions and gets into a ‘contretemps’ in the porch of a two car detached with a neat front lawn and well-kept borders. ‘The guy says to me that it makes no difference who gets elected, the ‘job’ isn’t about democracy and what people want but how to implement austerity at local level. I say Osborne was doing what was necessary and he says if I believe that I’m just as big a twat as him.’ Toby downs the rest of his pint, hiccoughs and continues, ’So I tell him he’s the twat, he tells me to eff off, I give him the V sign…and he grabs my fingers, squeezes and bends them right back! I swear he was trying to break them!’
‘I wondered why you weren’t wearing a tie tonight.’
Toby gives me two fingers with his good hand. I grab them and give them a quick kiss. He recoils, appalled, ‘What’s the matter with you!? You’re as bad as that moron who tried to break my fingers!’
‘I was using affection to teach you to be careful how you wave your fingers about…as violence didn’t seem to do it.’
Toby battles back a surge of irritation. Seeing this, Andy picks up his story. ’So Toby’s decided against a life in politics but here’s the thing, declaring himself independent means he’s de-Toried, party, club, the whole shebang.’ Toby’s expression darkens. ‘And he has to rely on the goodwill and mercy of the great and the good - whoever they are around here - to be accepted back into the fold.’
‘Porky bloody Williams!’ Toby spits out.
‘Who he?’ I ask.
’Vegetable wholesaler, owns the greengrocers in the high street.’
‘How confusing - is he the big cheese then?’
Andy offers encouragement, ‘When you tell him about your injury and how you got it in an erudite defence of Tory policy, you’ll be clubbing it in no time.’
Toby brightens, ‘Do you think?’
‘Why not? In fact…’ Andy enthuses ‘…why not stand as a Tory? That’s what you still are isn’t it? Your round.’
A smile creeps onto Toby’s face, his eyes viewing distant, winning tableaux as he gathers the glasses, the smile is for Andy before he turns to me with renewed challenge, ‘Any advice from Marx?’
‘Groucho say, custom and practice is to wait until you are elected before insulting people’s intelligence.’
Toby snorts and departs to get his round in. ‘Will he go for it?’ I wonder to Andy.
‘In the world of Porky the greengrocer, it’s entirely possible.’
We watch Toby at the bar, waving his injured hand, rehearsing a revised narrative of small but certain heroism for the landlord.
‘I see you’ve lost the Scott of the Antarctic look then!'
‘Better?’ I do a mock flourish.
‘What colour do you call those?’ Toby demands, with an excessive show of distaste.
‘Turquoise - as you well know Toby as it’s Carole’s favourite colour.’
‘Bet she wouldn’t buy me jeans that colour though.'
’And Georgie wouldn’t buy them for me either, I do my own shopping.’
‘You mean you paid for those?’
So. Stage directions and props stay the same, costumes lighten, tone darkens. Toby seems antagonistic. I can feel the swell of that wave approaching again. My beat is off.
‘I’m grateful we have different tastes, Toby.’
'Clothes maketh the man!’ (testily).
'No man, man maketh the clothes.’ (lightly).
‘Manners maketh man!’ (emphatically).
With Andy’s last word, Toby raises his palms high, ‘Let’s change the subject!’
I see Toby has the index and middle fingers of his right hand taped together with a splint between them; I give Andy the ’Tell me what’s up?’ look.Andy shrugs, ‘There’s been a tragedy.’ Toby flashes him a warning look. ‘He's had a spat with Carol over their bird feeder.'
‘What did she do, break your fingers?’
Toby does indignant, ’No! I hung up some fat balls in those little nets and she said they looked like knackers!’
‘Just unusually far apart.’ Andy adds.
'Is she squeamish?' I ask.
‘But she’s replaced them with those coconut half things - same look! But bigger balls!’
‘And hairier!’ Andy adds.
‘Squeamish! So what’s with the fingers then?’ I ask.
‘Go on, tell him.’
‘He’ll only take the piss!’
‘What are friends for?’
So Toby grimaces and tries putting gravitas into narrating how he goes out canvassing for his independent councillor ambitions and gets into a ‘contretemps’ in the porch of a two car detached with a neat front lawn and well-kept borders. ‘The guy says to me that it makes no difference who gets elected, the ‘job’ isn’t about democracy and what people want but how to implement austerity at local level. I say Osborne was doing what was necessary and he says if I believe that I’m just as big a twat as him.’ Toby downs the rest of his pint, hiccoughs and continues, ’So I tell him he’s the twat, he tells me to eff off, I give him the V sign…and he grabs my fingers, squeezes and bends them right back! I swear he was trying to break them!’
‘I wondered why you weren’t wearing a tie tonight.’
Toby gives me two fingers with his good hand. I grab them and give them a quick kiss. He recoils, appalled, ‘What’s the matter with you!? You’re as bad as that moron who tried to break my fingers!’
‘I was using affection to teach you to be careful how you wave your fingers about…as violence didn’t seem to do it.’
Toby battles back a surge of irritation. Seeing this, Andy picks up his story. ’So Toby’s decided against a life in politics but here’s the thing, declaring himself independent means he’s de-Toried, party, club, the whole shebang.’ Toby’s expression darkens. ‘And he has to rely on the goodwill and mercy of the great and the good - whoever they are around here - to be accepted back into the fold.’
‘Porky bloody Williams!’ Toby spits out.
‘Who he?’ I ask.
’Vegetable wholesaler, owns the greengrocers in the high street.’
‘How confusing - is he the big cheese then?’
Andy offers encouragement, ‘When you tell him about your injury and how you got it in an erudite defence of Tory policy, you’ll be clubbing it in no time.’
Toby brightens, ‘Do you think?’
‘Why not? In fact…’ Andy enthuses ‘…why not stand as a Tory? That’s what you still are isn’t it? Your round.’
A smile creeps onto Toby’s face, his eyes viewing distant, winning tableaux as he gathers the glasses, the smile is for Andy before he turns to me with renewed challenge, ‘Any advice from Marx?’
‘Groucho say, custom and practice is to wait until you are elected before insulting people’s intelligence.’
Toby snorts and departs to get his round in. ‘Will he go for it?’ I wonder to Andy.
‘In the world of Porky the greengrocer, it’s entirely possible.’
We watch Toby at the bar, waving his injured hand, rehearsing a revised narrative of small but certain heroism for the landlord.
64. Yippee ki-ay.
My walk to the Dun Cow has been filled with fritzes, winks, teases and glimpses; evening sunshine, watered earth, cut grass, birdsong, rasp of thin motorbike, radio from open window, empty traffic lighting, blue haze car-gone exhaust fumes, dog turd murder-victim circled with chalk, oilseed rape growing in gutter, child’s unscuffed shoe on wall, kebab remains cut with teeth and beak marks. I’m seeing so much in so little that every breath is promise and I’m Spring besprung ichor-veined giddy and I don't know why. And I don't care that I don't know why. For the tiniest tick of cosmic clockwork, perfection, purpose, joy and knowing has found me, holds and pins me to a pristine judgeless moment in which staying and living and leaving and dying are all one and the same just the right thing.
When the moment passes it leaves me overflowing but unwhole and wanting, like the times when you mustn’t waste a single second being apart and you run to catch time until blood tastes in your throat, heart lurching, leaping, hanging neverlanding and the grand scheme of things doesn't include you but so what? insignificance doesn’t matter when love teems in you.
So, suffused in lovewonder and glad to be aliveness, I open the door to the pub. There must be something wrong with it because there’s no doory resistance and it flies open, loudback banging against the wall. Now is another moment. Of course it is, they all are. This one is crackleglazed air of hiatus pregnant pausing, faces in the bar turned to the noisemaker. There is no honkytonk piano to fall silent, just the drowning sob electro gurning of an unarmed bandit.
‘THE MILKY BARS ARE ON ME!’
Andy laughs and waves, Toby flips hissy agitato, ‘Come and sit down! What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you beaming like an idiot?’
‘I’m happy.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Everything.'
’So it is idiot-beaming! What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have a Cowboy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A cocktail.’
‘You’ll have a beer.’
‘OK, I’ll flow with the go.’
‘That’s a spoonerism.'
‘Is it fork!’
‘Andy! Talk to him.’
‘About what?’
’Something normal and non-idiot!’
Andy is content not to test these concepts as Toby gets the beer. When he returns he grenades a packet of Smokey Bbq crisps onto the table 'That’s as cowboy as you’ll get from me.’
‘I sense you’re full of the joys Toby. Why aren’t You beaming like an idiot?’
‘I’m averse to idiocy…’
‘Averse is not immune.’ Andy mischiefs.
Toby lasers him before turning back to me, ’…and I wouldn’t want to deprive you of an occupation.’
’It’s more of a pastime really. Something’s cheered you up, Toby. How about you tell me what’s happened?’
As if the evening couldn’t conspire any more wonderfun love, I get micro-hit from Toby picturing out, like one of those Elizabethan miniatures that frame so much, how he’s been allowed to fully rejoin the Conservative Party, with nose-tapping ’No questions asked, least said soonest mended!’ re-enfoldy open-armness.
‘I’m pleased for you Toby.’
‘You’re taking the piss!’
’I wasn’t! But now you mention it, I’m inclined to.’
‘Come on, let’s hear it.’
’You’re my friend and I worry about you. As someone keen and pleased to join the Tory party right now, you must be a rare and threatened species, you know, habitat endangered…’
‘I never left.’
‘…tagged in garden-watch flying pig counts.’
But now Toby is back in the citadel, he is minting commemorative self-assurance. 'Mock all you want but everything any good that has happened to me has come from belonging to the party.'
I decide to say nothing to that. It could only hurt and he really is a friend. And truly, part of me envies the certainty and confidence of organised believers with their fortified reasoning and where that fails, faith. I take a longer route home and for most of it I’m looking up at the stars, wondering about grand schemes and how long it will be for another moment that shows me whether there could even be such things.
When the moment passes it leaves me overflowing but unwhole and wanting, like the times when you mustn’t waste a single second being apart and you run to catch time until blood tastes in your throat, heart lurching, leaping, hanging neverlanding and the grand scheme of things doesn't include you but so what? insignificance doesn’t matter when love teems in you.
So, suffused in lovewonder and glad to be aliveness, I open the door to the pub. There must be something wrong with it because there’s no doory resistance and it flies open, loudback banging against the wall. Now is another moment. Of course it is, they all are. This one is crackleglazed air of hiatus pregnant pausing, faces in the bar turned to the noisemaker. There is no honkytonk piano to fall silent, just the drowning sob electro gurning of an unarmed bandit.
‘THE MILKY BARS ARE ON ME!’
Andy laughs and waves, Toby flips hissy agitato, ‘Come and sit down! What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you beaming like an idiot?’
‘I’m happy.’
‘Why, what’s happened?’
‘Nothing. Everything.'
’So it is idiot-beaming! What are you drinking?’
‘I’ll have a Cowboy.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A cocktail.’
‘You’ll have a beer.’
‘OK, I’ll flow with the go.’
‘That’s a spoonerism.'
‘Is it fork!’
‘Andy! Talk to him.’
‘About what?’
’Something normal and non-idiot!’
Andy is content not to test these concepts as Toby gets the beer. When he returns he grenades a packet of Smokey Bbq crisps onto the table 'That’s as cowboy as you’ll get from me.’
‘I sense you’re full of the joys Toby. Why aren’t You beaming like an idiot?’
‘I’m averse to idiocy…’
‘Averse is not immune.’ Andy mischiefs.
Toby lasers him before turning back to me, ’…and I wouldn’t want to deprive you of an occupation.’
’It’s more of a pastime really. Something’s cheered you up, Toby. How about you tell me what’s happened?’
As if the evening couldn’t conspire any more wonderfun love, I get micro-hit from Toby picturing out, like one of those Elizabethan miniatures that frame so much, how he’s been allowed to fully rejoin the Conservative Party, with nose-tapping ’No questions asked, least said soonest mended!’ re-enfoldy open-armness.
‘I’m pleased for you Toby.’
‘You’re taking the piss!’
’I wasn’t! But now you mention it, I’m inclined to.’
‘Come on, let’s hear it.’
’You’re my friend and I worry about you. As someone keen and pleased to join the Tory party right now, you must be a rare and threatened species, you know, habitat endangered…’
‘I never left.’
‘…tagged in garden-watch flying pig counts.’
But now Toby is back in the citadel, he is minting commemorative self-assurance. 'Mock all you want but everything any good that has happened to me has come from belonging to the party.'
I decide to say nothing to that. It could only hurt and he really is a friend. And truly, part of me envies the certainty and confidence of organised believers with their fortified reasoning and where that fails, faith. I take a longer route home and for most of it I’m looking up at the stars, wondering about grand schemes and how long it will be for another moment that shows me whether there could even be such things.
65. Clog popping
Toby puts on his serious face, it always seems close to hand lately, as if he regards the happy
one as a frippery, ‘I know it’s not a pleasant subject...’
‘Avoid it then!’
‘...I know it’s not a pleasant subject Andy, but have you guys given any thought to your funeral
arrangements?’
‘I’d rather not.’ Andy says flatly.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to think about death if that’s OK with you.’
‘That’s just burying your head in the sand!’
I love Toby’s gift for nailing the right wrong expression but neither of them appreciate ’Toby’s
right - what about the rest of you?’
‘Well, I’ve been looking into it, Carol and me had a guy round to talk about taking out a funeral
plan.’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it!’
‘But it could save you money...’
‘No! I’ll be dead. Won’t need money.’
‘This is serious business! It’ll save money for those you leave behind...and worry. That’s the last
thing you want, surely?...for your loved ones, at a time of grief, when they are vulnerable?’
‘Is that how they sell the plan Toby?’ I ask, ‘By acknowledging people get ripped off because of
the circumstances, so they can stiff you with a plan in advance of circumstances instead?’
Andy grimaces when I say ‘stiff’ and Toby puts on his disgusted face, ‘How can you talk like
that? Is nothing sacred to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, nothing is sacred to me.’
Toby sighs, ‘So be it. But you don’t even know how the plan saves you money!’
‘What’s this about Toby?’ Andy puts his glass on the table, ’The way you’re going on, anyone
would think you’ll get a discount for signing us up.’
Toby’s laugh is a beat late and a bit shrill. Andy senses he has hit the mark. ‘That’s it isn’t it?
You’re trying to get yourself a discount! How does that work?’
‘Oh, so you want to talk about funeral arrangements now!’
‘No, I want to talk about what you’re up to. Is it some kind of pyramid scheme?’
I think it but don’t say it, make smiling do for laughing and leave to get the drinks in. When I
return things are hot, voices hard, fingers pointing, ‘I bet you’ve got a tattoo of a wallet over your
heart!’
’That’s the last time I try doing you a favour!’
‘Do me one when I’m alive, not when I’m bloody dead!’
‘I’m trying to do both!’
I take my seat, on the edge of their fume. Toby is the hardcore sulker so I try reading the
upside-down leaflet he’s now using as a beermat, ‘Is that the plan Toby?’
‘Forget it!’, he moves his pint, grabs and tears up the leaflet, ‘Happy now?’
‘Oh! OK. Can I have a free ballpoint pen just for enquiring?’
‘Yeah, well - we’ve all got to go there.’
‘The undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns...’
‘Whatever.’
‘Got your holiday booked?’ As segues go, this was an absolute clunker but the tension was
getting to me. Toby declines to meet me halfway, just shakes his head in the smallest
discernible arc. ‘What abut you, Andy?’
‘What about me?’
Short of them back to backing, twenty pacing, turn and firing, Andy and Toby couldn’t put on a
more chasmic show. It’s one I don’t care to watch so I take my beer and sit at the bar, silence of
one feeling more comfortable than silence of three. As I’m sat there I start thinking I would like
to be something useful when I’m gone, like compost or bone meal when Joni Mitchell arrives. I
haven’t even offered to buy her a drink before she singingly tells me we are stardust. This gets
me smiling in a reflective way that Toby informs me is idiot fashion, just as I see him pacing
towards me, the lonely, lost head of a cortège, wafty purple fabric flowing from his top hat.
‘You’ve scared Joni away!’
‘What are you talking about? What are you doing sat at the bar?’
‘You two are behaving like arseholes.’
‘OK.’ And he turns and paces back, same floaty, wafty way.
The new barman, who looks unshavingly young, moves to stand in front of me, wiping the bar,
’Is that guy bothering you?’
‘I can cope.’
‘It’s just that I don’t want him bothering customers, I think he’s some kind of salesman.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, earlier, he was trying to get me interested in a funeral plan! Me!’ we laugh, me loudest. ‘I
mean, that’s for people your kind of age!’
I do a shock horror intake of breath.
‘Sorry, I...’
‘Just kidding. Right now, you’re immortal. Think about it when your im drops off.’
He wipes the already wiped bar and hurries away. I’ve been messing about with my phone a
while when Andy comes to the bar, ‘Want a drink with some ex-arseholes?’
‘Don’t you mean recovering arseholes?’
‘Not sure I’ve recovered but do you want a drink anyway?’
‘OK, a stiff one.’
‘You can be a bit of an arsehole yourself!’
‘True. Look at this...’ I show him a web page that offers a ‘Blowin' in the Wind Memorial Wind
Chime - 34 inch’ for $100.00 ‘...who said death is a serious business?’
one as a frippery, ‘I know it’s not a pleasant subject...’
‘Avoid it then!’
‘...I know it’s not a pleasant subject Andy, but have you guys given any thought to your funeral
arrangements?’
‘I’d rather not.’ Andy says flatly.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t want to think about death if that’s OK with you.’
‘That’s just burying your head in the sand!’
I love Toby’s gift for nailing the right wrong expression but neither of them appreciate ’Toby’s
right - what about the rest of you?’
‘Well, I’ve been looking into it, Carol and me had a guy round to talk about taking out a funeral
plan.’
‘I told you, I don’t want to talk about it!’
‘But it could save you money...’
‘No! I’ll be dead. Won’t need money.’
‘This is serious business! It’ll save money for those you leave behind...and worry. That’s the last
thing you want, surely?...for your loved ones, at a time of grief, when they are vulnerable?’
‘Is that how they sell the plan Toby?’ I ask, ‘By acknowledging people get ripped off because of
the circumstances, so they can stiff you with a plan in advance of circumstances instead?’
Andy grimaces when I say ‘stiff’ and Toby puts on his disgusted face, ‘How can you talk like
that? Is nothing sacred to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, nothing is sacred to me.’
Toby sighs, ‘So be it. But you don’t even know how the plan saves you money!’
‘What’s this about Toby?’ Andy puts his glass on the table, ’The way you’re going on, anyone
would think you’ll get a discount for signing us up.’
Toby’s laugh is a beat late and a bit shrill. Andy senses he has hit the mark. ‘That’s it isn’t it?
You’re trying to get yourself a discount! How does that work?’
‘Oh, so you want to talk about funeral arrangements now!’
‘No, I want to talk about what you’re up to. Is it some kind of pyramid scheme?’
I think it but don’t say it, make smiling do for laughing and leave to get the drinks in. When I
return things are hot, voices hard, fingers pointing, ‘I bet you’ve got a tattoo of a wallet over your
heart!’
’That’s the last time I try doing you a favour!’
‘Do me one when I’m alive, not when I’m bloody dead!’
‘I’m trying to do both!’
I take my seat, on the edge of their fume. Toby is the hardcore sulker so I try reading the
upside-down leaflet he’s now using as a beermat, ‘Is that the plan Toby?’
‘Forget it!’, he moves his pint, grabs and tears up the leaflet, ‘Happy now?’
‘Oh! OK. Can I have a free ballpoint pen just for enquiring?’
‘Yeah, well - we’ve all got to go there.’
‘The undiscovered country, from whose bourn no traveller returns...’
‘Whatever.’
‘Got your holiday booked?’ As segues go, this was an absolute clunker but the tension was
getting to me. Toby declines to meet me halfway, just shakes his head in the smallest
discernible arc. ‘What abut you, Andy?’
‘What about me?’
Short of them back to backing, twenty pacing, turn and firing, Andy and Toby couldn’t put on a
more chasmic show. It’s one I don’t care to watch so I take my beer and sit at the bar, silence of
one feeling more comfortable than silence of three. As I’m sat there I start thinking I would like
to be something useful when I’m gone, like compost or bone meal when Joni Mitchell arrives. I
haven’t even offered to buy her a drink before she singingly tells me we are stardust. This gets
me smiling in a reflective way that Toby informs me is idiot fashion, just as I see him pacing
towards me, the lonely, lost head of a cortège, wafty purple fabric flowing from his top hat.
‘You’ve scared Joni away!’
‘What are you talking about? What are you doing sat at the bar?’
‘You two are behaving like arseholes.’
‘OK.’ And he turns and paces back, same floaty, wafty way.
The new barman, who looks unshavingly young, moves to stand in front of me, wiping the bar,
’Is that guy bothering you?’
‘I can cope.’
‘It’s just that I don’t want him bothering customers, I think he’s some kind of salesman.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, earlier, he was trying to get me interested in a funeral plan! Me!’ we laugh, me loudest. ‘I
mean, that’s for people your kind of age!’
I do a shock horror intake of breath.
‘Sorry, I...’
‘Just kidding. Right now, you’re immortal. Think about it when your im drops off.’
He wipes the already wiped bar and hurries away. I’ve been messing about with my phone a
while when Andy comes to the bar, ‘Want a drink with some ex-arseholes?’
‘Don’t you mean recovering arseholes?’
‘Not sure I’ve recovered but do you want a drink anyway?’
‘OK, a stiff one.’
‘You can be a bit of an arsehole yourself!’
‘True. Look at this...’ I show him a web page that offers a ‘Blowin' in the Wind Memorial Wind
Chime - 34 inch’ for $100.00 ‘...who said death is a serious business?’
66. 100% charged
Andy swigs off a good half-pint, wipes his lips with a thumb and forefinger, ‘Don’t worry, he’s got it nsured.’
I swig less, and less confidently. I can’t help feeling he’s just saying that to make me feel better, ’How do you know?’
‘He told me when he upgraded, you know how he is, latest model, unlimited this, unlimited that…and insured.’
Toby re-enters theatrically through the main door, stormy-browed, stoney-faced. Walking towards us he holds his mobile aloft, stiff-armed. ’Fucked!’
‘I’m sorry Toby…’
‘You will be, it’s going to cost you!’
I exchange a swift glance with Andy, Toby clocks it, so I venture, ‘Haven’t you got it insured?’
Toby exchanges a swift glance with Andy, ‘Been having a little chat have we? While I was outside checking whether my phone is knackered.’ He turns to me, ‘Which it is!’
‘I said I’m sorry…’
‘Thanks to YOU!’ With ‘YOU!’ Toby leans forward and points a finger, very close to my face. I mean very. That’s what he did with his phone, stuck it in my face. It’s all I can do not to repeat the swipe that knocked it out of his hand, across the floor and into the skirting. ‘Well, you shouldn’t have stuck it in my face, like you ‘re doing now, it’s about time you learned to be less confrontational.’
‘This from the vandal who destroyed my phone!’
‘It’s not destroyed it’s…’
‘Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!’
Toby and me look at Andy. ‘Behave! At the end of the day, it’s just a phone.’
‘Just a phone! Sure it’s just a phone! MY phone that’s costing ME nearly fifty quid a month!’
‘That includes insurance…or so you told me.’
‘Yeah, well, so what? That doesn’t cover your so-called mate busting it up! And what about the
inconvenience? What if Carol needs to call me, an emergency or something?’
I lean back in my chair, eyeing Toby, ‘So you would rather get me to pay for any damage than claim
on the insurance?’
‘Why not? YOU broke it.’
‘YOU stuck it in my face, jiggling it and all that! With that BREXIT TRIUMPH! crap on the screen. You were being an arse! What did you expect?’
‘A grown-up response?’
‘You got a response in kind.’
‘What’s that when it’s at home?’
‘Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, Toby!’
Andy’s laughing distracts us mid-hornlock, ‘You know what you two are?’
‘I know what HE is!’ Toby just can’t stop with the pointing.
‘Is it rude?’ I ask, code-switching to civil, making show of it for Toby.
‘Of course! But let’s not go into that. You two are a microcosm.’ Andy points first at me, then at Toby, ‘A forty-eight percent, fifty-two percent, microcosm.’
I realise that maybe neither of us can help ourselves when Toby says ‘Yeah and he’s the micro-est and needs to get over it.’
’Toby, I let myself down when I slapped your phone out of your hand, I can assure you I don’t feel good about it.’
‘Don’t think that gets you off the hook.’
For the first time since knowing Toby, I really feel like belting him in the chops. His fists are clenched so I guess he feels the same about me. ‘I should have shoved it down your throat. That would have made me feel good.’
Luckily for both of us, Andy is an imposing peacemaker. Standing to loom over us, his ’STOP!’ startles the Dun Cow into momentary silence. Sitting again he says ‘You’re as bad as one another, you’re both wind-up merchants with this stuff. Now forget about it! Shake hands or I’m out of here!’
I imagine I look as much told-off naughty schoolboy as Toby does when I hold out my hand. Toby takes it with the grip of a lettuce leaf. I make eye contact and see a flicker of heat before he shakes my hand properly and says, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll claim on the bloody insurance.’
‘And I’ll pay any excess.’
Andy is pleased, ‘Good! That’s settled. I mean, you can’t let a twat like Farage ruin your friendship, can you?’
Toby’s growing smile dies instantly, ‘Now, wait a minute!’
‘He’s only using that as shorthand Toby, an example.’ I sense Andy is grateful for the prompt rescue.
Toby folds his arms, ‘Example of what?’
It might be better if I was a finger pointer rather than a smart mouth who can’t resist temptation,
‘Farage as an exemplary twat…but we all know it’s Cameron who set the bar…’ Toby stares at me, the flicker backlighting, ‘…well, more like fifty-two percent to Farage’s forty-eight. Hard to separate
them really. It’s part of our national disidentity.’
To his credit, Toby finds an inner switch, untautens, softens himself by letting out the breath he’s been holding in, then points at me, finger to my face but further away than before, ‘I think you’d better get the drinks in.’
’I’ll get the drinks in shall I?’
67. Mississippi Time
I keep running the memory video, chanting One Mississippi, Two Mississippi and there’s no way I can extend the whole thing beyond a few minutes. Yet it seemed an age.
I’m not particularly fond of garden barbecues but Toby insisted on hosting this one to normalise relations after the shemozzle in The Dun Cow. Preparations have gone well, Toby is an organised guy and I can follow instructions. Jobs done, I declare the flask of whisky and tin of pre-rolled joints I’ve brought and how about it, whilst Georgie and Carol are still inside? Maybe afterwards but I should carry on, so I do. I’m blissing and small talking but after a while, Toby starts fretting over the barbecue, he thinks it won’t be ready in time. I say twenty, thirty minutes won’t bother anyone.
One Mississippi, Two Mississippi…
Toby produces a squeezy bottle and jets something into the barbecue. There’s a sound like WHOOMPF and a flaming whoosh does his eyebrows, eyelashes and some fringe, I could see twisty ends glowing as I threw the bucket of water over his head, action man quick. Toby was using the bucket for barbecue utensils too and a thing like a wallpaper stripper clonks him sharp corner end on his head. He staggers about, hands over his face, blood coming down over his fingers.
Twelve Mississippi, Thirteen Mississippi…
He fires off a lot of swear words, in creative combinations and a short one prefaced with ‘you’ salvoed at me (though on reflection he may with justification have been referring to himself). Unseeingly he trips over another garden thing I’m not fond of, those little archy green wire border things, and does a sideways half-pike dive into the flower bed.
Nineteen Mississippi, Twenty Mississippi…
Most of the plants are bedding that he smashes flat, but a bit of him on his falling side takes out some of the rose bush he bought Carol for their thirtieth wedding anniversary. The glowy bits on his face scared me but the rose bush scream made my blood run cold.
Twenty-Four Mississippi, Twenty-Five Mississippi…
I’ve manhandled him out of the thorns, dirt and foliage and have him on his feet when Carol and Georgie arrive. Carol’s first reaction is to cry out for her rose bush. I think in time, this will cause its own kind of pain. I get him into a garden chair by Fifty Mississippis. Carol goes for the first aid kit but Georgie’s ’Oh my God! Toby! You’re bleeding!’ agitates him. I check him over and tell him it all looks superficial, maybe the cut on his head…a stitch or two…but even that…he's lucky, it could have been worse.
‘Lucky!? Give me one of those cigarettes!’ after a split-second’s hesitation, I judge this not the time to quibble about shock, light one and hand it to him. ‘Drink!’ I take the top off the flask and hand it to him.
Seventy-One Mississippi, Seventy-Two Mississippi…
Seeing him there ripped, ragged, flash-burned, bloodied and smoked, swigging, puffing and bleeding, I can hardly believe how quickly it all happened. Now the barbecue roar has abated I can hear birdsong, treeleaf rustle, Toby’s chair creak. The sun beams healing rays on his face.
One-Hundred-and-Four Mississippi, One-Hundred-and-Five Mississippi…
Georgie squats besides Toby and puts a comforting hand on his arm. I take out another joint for myself but Toby, smiling at Georgie, says ‘Here.’ As he leans forward to return the one I gave him, his folding chair folds under him and he’s hit the deck on his falling side again, tangled in the foldings. Those chairs - another garden thing I'm not fond of. Georgie screams, I action man it again to pick him up but as I grab him he says ‘Fuck off! I’m staying here.’ Carol comes running with the first aid kit and she screams. I thought it was the pierce of her scream that makes him leap up, jerky-hoppity-freeing himself from the chair, throwing it in anger and frustration. But he starts slapping and rubbing himself, making me think he’s been stung and that boy! when it’s not your day! But it wasn’t a sting, he’d fallen on the joint he was passing me and as he lay there it burned through his shirt and started on his belly. We didn’t know that then as our attention was where the chair he’d thrown had knocked over the barbecue, spilling a fan of glowing briquettes that sit charring holes in the immaculate lawn.
One-Hundred-and-Forty Mississippi, One-Hundred-and-Forty-One Mississippi…
Toby shuffles zombie-style to his shed, rumbles and clangs about inside, emerges with a sledgehammer and heads for the barbecue to kill it.
My heart goes out to Toby, he had nothing but good intent and this is how it’s turned out, Keystone Barbecue. Cruel. Is it my turn to scream? Or laugh? I go behind the shed, shelter from the sounds of metal-bashing and cries of ’Toby! Don’t! Toby! Stop!’ A toke, a drink, toggle repeat to on. Best wait a bit before asking them if they want us to go home or order a takeaway. Maybe visit A&E.
One Mississippi, Two Mississippi…
68. Sinister, Dexter
Whilst Andy is at the bar Toby, as is his wont, gets some in, waving his ballot paper, far enough away from me to keep it safe. ’I’m right as in I’m in the right you’re left as in left behind, in the wrong.’ I won’t be drawn. ‘What’s wrong with Boris anyway?’
I try humour. ‘He’s not Godunov!’
Nothing. But it was lame, so…’Mussorgsky?…Pushkin?’
Nothing…Nothing. Then Toby beams ‘Pictures at an Exhibition! Emerson, Lake and Palmer!’ Then he wants a straight answer.
I tell him I am numbed to the point of manic laughter by my country’s neglect, missteps, wrong turns and batshit craziness and for the sake of sanity and friendship, don’t want to talk about it anymore. I feel like a foreigner in my own country, an undesirable alien.
‘What you don’t have, in Spades, is faith, belief in your country!’
I said ‘God give me strength!’ but as an atheist, I guess that’s a verbal tic at best, maybe psychic hypocrisy. I’m adrift in all sorts of ways.
Toby presses, why so quiet, what? no cut and thrust? why so down? I say I’m not down, maybe bottoming out. But some things I have heard, read recently have loosed a black dog and I'm watchful of his prowling. Amidst the sunblaze beebuzz I’ve felt the kind of whelm that comes with birds departing on waning days, the desiccate poetry of deadfall leaves. The spectre of goings and endings spook me to reckless impulses, to rewire every circuit of my being.
‘How long have you been feeling like this?’
‘On and off…since I was fifteen.’
‘Fifteen! That’s a lifetime!’
For some. I feel permeable and utterly seeable, inviting unwanted curiosity and inspection. As I always do in such moments, I lace my fingers together to keep my hands under the table, believing the scars on my wrists sometimes shine. They are heals of cuttings into a long ago life when ‘cries for help’ were considered more motive than symptom. But I still have a fade of affection for that boy who was scared by men and didn’t want to become one. Touch and go. But I’m grateful I failed to not make it. Most of the time. Schizoaffective disorder they called it. A fault-lined chasm in the C.V. to be bridged.
Andy returns with the beers, ‘This country is going to the dogs!’
‘He’s been on about a black dog, is he one of them?’
‘I thought it was a joke but see that bloke at the bar, the one with the checky shirt…he’s had two ballot papers for the Tory leadership.’
I see Toby doing some swift one-handed origami with his and slipping it into a pocket before he says ‘And your point is?’
‘My point is Toby, how can you trust a mob that can’t even keep tabs on, what? - a hundred and sixty thousand people, their own membership! - to run a country of over sixty million?’
‘You’re missing the big picture stuff.’
‘Don’t think so! We’re beyond parody. Psychodrama? It’s Psychopantomime!’
Andy’s choice of words float on the background babble in my head. ’That’s it. The country has schizoaffective disorder!’
‘Really Doc? Explain!’
‘Delusions, risk-taking, crazy plans, unrealistic take on things…seems to me like they’re symptoms of the national malaise.’
‘What malaise? Why can’t you see it another way?’
‘That’s just what a schizoaffective would say!’
I don’t know whether Toby’s rictus is a forced or a suppressed smile.
‘Then there’s the self-harm.’ And with that trip over my own words my hands are under the table again.
Andy asks ‘Have you got your ballot paper Toby? Can I see it?’
Toby retrieves it from his pocket, ‘Keep it away from him, I don’t want him tearing it up!’
‘You can always ask check shirt man, he’s got a spare.’
‘I wouldn’t tear it up Toby. Why would I want to increase the democratic deficit?’
As Andy inspects the piece of paper I look around, wondering aloud ‘What are the odds of having only two people in the pub at the same time who can have such a say in the future of their country? Normally it would probably be all of us.’
Andy returns the ballot paper, ‘I think I’ll start a general election sweepstake.’
‘As to when?’ I ask.
‘No. Turnout. I wonder if all what’s happened will get more people voting.’
‘Up do you reckon?’
Andy, apolitical Andy seems genuinely saddened when he says ‘I don’t think we’re a nation of learners.’
‘The Tories’ll walk it! You’ll see.’
I fear the pub pundits will prove right. Compared to the nation’s scars mine are nothing.
I try humour. ‘He’s not Godunov!’
Nothing. But it was lame, so…’Mussorgsky?…Pushkin?’
Nothing…Nothing. Then Toby beams ‘Pictures at an Exhibition! Emerson, Lake and Palmer!’ Then he wants a straight answer.
I tell him I am numbed to the point of manic laughter by my country’s neglect, missteps, wrong turns and batshit craziness and for the sake of sanity and friendship, don’t want to talk about it anymore. I feel like a foreigner in my own country, an undesirable alien.
‘What you don’t have, in Spades, is faith, belief in your country!’
I said ‘God give me strength!’ but as an atheist, I guess that’s a verbal tic at best, maybe psychic hypocrisy. I’m adrift in all sorts of ways.
Toby presses, why so quiet, what? no cut and thrust? why so down? I say I’m not down, maybe bottoming out. But some things I have heard, read recently have loosed a black dog and I'm watchful of his prowling. Amidst the sunblaze beebuzz I’ve felt the kind of whelm that comes with birds departing on waning days, the desiccate poetry of deadfall leaves. The spectre of goings and endings spook me to reckless impulses, to rewire every circuit of my being.
‘How long have you been feeling like this?’
‘On and off…since I was fifteen.’
‘Fifteen! That’s a lifetime!’
For some. I feel permeable and utterly seeable, inviting unwanted curiosity and inspection. As I always do in such moments, I lace my fingers together to keep my hands under the table, believing the scars on my wrists sometimes shine. They are heals of cuttings into a long ago life when ‘cries for help’ were considered more motive than symptom. But I still have a fade of affection for that boy who was scared by men and didn’t want to become one. Touch and go. But I’m grateful I failed to not make it. Most of the time. Schizoaffective disorder they called it. A fault-lined chasm in the C.V. to be bridged.
Andy returns with the beers, ‘This country is going to the dogs!’
‘He’s been on about a black dog, is he one of them?’
‘I thought it was a joke but see that bloke at the bar, the one with the checky shirt…he’s had two ballot papers for the Tory leadership.’
I see Toby doing some swift one-handed origami with his and slipping it into a pocket before he says ‘And your point is?’
‘My point is Toby, how can you trust a mob that can’t even keep tabs on, what? - a hundred and sixty thousand people, their own membership! - to run a country of over sixty million?’
‘You’re missing the big picture stuff.’
‘Don’t think so! We’re beyond parody. Psychodrama? It’s Psychopantomime!’
Andy’s choice of words float on the background babble in my head. ’That’s it. The country has schizoaffective disorder!’
‘Really Doc? Explain!’
‘Delusions, risk-taking, crazy plans, unrealistic take on things…seems to me like they’re symptoms of the national malaise.’
‘What malaise? Why can’t you see it another way?’
‘That’s just what a schizoaffective would say!’
I don’t know whether Toby’s rictus is a forced or a suppressed smile.
‘Then there’s the self-harm.’ And with that trip over my own words my hands are under the table again.
Andy asks ‘Have you got your ballot paper Toby? Can I see it?’
Toby retrieves it from his pocket, ‘Keep it away from him, I don’t want him tearing it up!’
‘You can always ask check shirt man, he’s got a spare.’
‘I wouldn’t tear it up Toby. Why would I want to increase the democratic deficit?’
As Andy inspects the piece of paper I look around, wondering aloud ‘What are the odds of having only two people in the pub at the same time who can have such a say in the future of their country? Normally it would probably be all of us.’
Andy returns the ballot paper, ‘I think I’ll start a general election sweepstake.’
‘As to when?’ I ask.
‘No. Turnout. I wonder if all what’s happened will get more people voting.’
‘Up do you reckon?’
Andy, apolitical Andy seems genuinely saddened when he says ‘I don’t think we’re a nation of learners.’
‘The Tories’ll walk it! You’ll see.’
I fear the pub pundits will prove right. Compared to the nation’s scars mine are nothing.
69. Lady Chatterley’s Scarecrow
A day pottering in the garden that began with light work under a film of cloud evolved into toil in late sunshine. Standing upright to an overture of creaks and pangs, I reflect that I’ve been at home for weeks, grouching about how long I take to heal nowadays. Of all the signs and symptoms of ageing, I find this the most dispiriting. Then there’s been the tragi-comic unfolding of national life that has me thinking I’m a fish too easily reeled in by Toby’s smallest political baiting, and should keep clear of those waters. I’ve been in a slump. But I’ve worked up a thirst and decide the gash in my leg is healed enough to allow almost limp-free walking, so before I can change my mind, I wash my hands, tie my all-purpose paisley rag round my neck, grab my wallet, put my leather hat on and call out to Georgie, ‘I’m off to the Dun Cow.’
I still hadn’t walked the work out of my joints as I entered, unsure whether they would be there.
‘Look who’s here! - Ben Gunn! - with a pimp roll!’
‘That’ll cost you a pint, Toby.’
‘Good to see you’ Andy says, ‘What’s kept you away?’
I lower myself into a chair, trying not to ache, ‘Senescence.’
‘What’s that, an aftershave? Not that you need it. Look at you! What do you call that get up?’
I have to smile, it’s like Toby saw me only yesterday. ‘It’s a fisherman’s smock, I’ve been gardening.’
‘Under a hedge?’ Toby does a little preen. ‘Look! You’ve got spiders’ webs on you…and dead leaves!’
It was just a couple of little ones that I missed. Toby’s core style is mail order from Sunday supplements but I don’t hold that against him, and to give him his due, he is always crisp, pressed and polished, rarely without a shirt and tie, and today, compared with him my core style is Lady Chatterley’s scarecrow, a consummate antithesis of synergy. I’ve been in a slump. And it’s been too long since I cut a dash. But it doesn’t warrant Toby acting as if he’s just been kitted out on Jermyn Street.
’So what’s this senescence that’s been keeping you away?’ Andy asks.
‘Just…getting older.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
’Twenty-eighth.’
‘I’ll get you a razor’ Toby says standing up to get the drinks in ‘Remember them?’ He shoots his cuffs before he picks up the glasses.
‘Don’t bother, I’m saving up for a visit to that new Turkish barber shop.’
‘Are you some kind of tight-arse?’
‘Talking about tight-arses, when are you going to get that pint?’
Toby heads for the bar, clenching his buttocks.
Andy chats and gets round to asking with a hint of concern if it’s anything more than ‘senescence’. I tell him no but admit to not dealing with it well, mostly because I’m fed up with a segued run of ailments and injuries.
‘Are you getting a bit Do not go gentle into that good night?’
‘The lights aren’t going out yet Andy! But I do feel a bit…dimmer.’
’You’re coming across that way!’ Toby says arriving with the pints, ‘You need some brain food. Sharpen up all round. I’ve missed the battle of wits.’
Andy rolls his eyes and vees him.
’So how’s it with you Toby?’ I ask, ‘What’s got you brimming?’
‘Counting my blessings! Apart from Carol’s sister over in Canada, we don’t have any family.’
‘That’s a blessing?’ Andy disbelieves.
‘Well, I was at the Doc’s the other day, and on the way out I overheard a guy about our age, grumbling he’d gone from baby boomer to the sandwich generation, stuck between elderly parents and adult children with their own children, all being needy or causing concern in one way or another. He looked care-worn, sounded depressed.’
‘It can get to you…’ I say, ‘…into your thinking. When Georgie and me were having yet another discussion about her elderly parents, care and legal matters and all that, she burst out laughing because I said the power of eternity instead of power of attorney.’
‘Freudian?’ Andy quips.
‘Probably.’
’So anyway, I’m not in a sandwich. I’m still booming.’
Andy downs a third of his pint, eyeing Toby. ’What if you were a sandwich. What would you be?’
‘I dunno, I’ll have to think…what would you be?’
Andy downs another third. ‘Corned beef from the fridge. Pickle. Crusty white doorsteps.’ He turns to me, ‘What about you?’
‘Guaranteed to be something you’ve never heard of!’ Toby chuckles and swigs his beer. I realise I’ve been nursing mine and give myself time to think by downing half of it.
‘I would be a crocked monsieur. On sourdough.’
’What did I say? Told you it would be something poncey!’ Toby thinks he’s made Andy laugh and joins in.
‘What about you then Toby?’
‘Me’ he smooths his tie, ‘I’m a club sandwich.’
‘The version with non-poncey cocktail sticks poked through?’
‘Touché! That’s more like it! Now if only you can stop looking like a bum and get in touch with your inner smart man, you could be decent company.’
’Thanks Toby! How about you meet me halfway and get in touch with your inner bum.’
Andy laughs, shaking his head, ’Battle of wits!’ and heads for the bar humming Bread of Heaven.
I still hadn’t walked the work out of my joints as I entered, unsure whether they would be there.
‘Look who’s here! - Ben Gunn! - with a pimp roll!’
‘That’ll cost you a pint, Toby.’
‘Good to see you’ Andy says, ‘What’s kept you away?’
I lower myself into a chair, trying not to ache, ‘Senescence.’
‘What’s that, an aftershave? Not that you need it. Look at you! What do you call that get up?’
I have to smile, it’s like Toby saw me only yesterday. ‘It’s a fisherman’s smock, I’ve been gardening.’
‘Under a hedge?’ Toby does a little preen. ‘Look! You’ve got spiders’ webs on you…and dead leaves!’
It was just a couple of little ones that I missed. Toby’s core style is mail order from Sunday supplements but I don’t hold that against him, and to give him his due, he is always crisp, pressed and polished, rarely without a shirt and tie, and today, compared with him my core style is Lady Chatterley’s scarecrow, a consummate antithesis of synergy. I’ve been in a slump. And it’s been too long since I cut a dash. But it doesn’t warrant Toby acting as if he’s just been kitted out on Jermyn Street.
’So what’s this senescence that’s been keeping you away?’ Andy asks.
‘Just…getting older.’
‘When’s your birthday?’
’Twenty-eighth.’
‘I’ll get you a razor’ Toby says standing up to get the drinks in ‘Remember them?’ He shoots his cuffs before he picks up the glasses.
‘Don’t bother, I’m saving up for a visit to that new Turkish barber shop.’
‘Are you some kind of tight-arse?’
‘Talking about tight-arses, when are you going to get that pint?’
Toby heads for the bar, clenching his buttocks.
Andy chats and gets round to asking with a hint of concern if it’s anything more than ‘senescence’. I tell him no but admit to not dealing with it well, mostly because I’m fed up with a segued run of ailments and injuries.
‘Are you getting a bit Do not go gentle into that good night?’
‘The lights aren’t going out yet Andy! But I do feel a bit…dimmer.’
’You’re coming across that way!’ Toby says arriving with the pints, ‘You need some brain food. Sharpen up all round. I’ve missed the battle of wits.’
Andy rolls his eyes and vees him.
’So how’s it with you Toby?’ I ask, ‘What’s got you brimming?’
‘Counting my blessings! Apart from Carol’s sister over in Canada, we don’t have any family.’
‘That’s a blessing?’ Andy disbelieves.
‘Well, I was at the Doc’s the other day, and on the way out I overheard a guy about our age, grumbling he’d gone from baby boomer to the sandwich generation, stuck between elderly parents and adult children with their own children, all being needy or causing concern in one way or another. He looked care-worn, sounded depressed.’
‘It can get to you…’ I say, ‘…into your thinking. When Georgie and me were having yet another discussion about her elderly parents, care and legal matters and all that, she burst out laughing because I said the power of eternity instead of power of attorney.’
‘Freudian?’ Andy quips.
‘Probably.’
’So anyway, I’m not in a sandwich. I’m still booming.’
Andy downs a third of his pint, eyeing Toby. ’What if you were a sandwich. What would you be?’
‘I dunno, I’ll have to think…what would you be?’
Andy downs another third. ‘Corned beef from the fridge. Pickle. Crusty white doorsteps.’ He turns to me, ‘What about you?’
‘Guaranteed to be something you’ve never heard of!’ Toby chuckles and swigs his beer. I realise I’ve been nursing mine and give myself time to think by downing half of it.
‘I would be a crocked monsieur. On sourdough.’
’What did I say? Told you it would be something poncey!’ Toby thinks he’s made Andy laugh and joins in.
‘What about you then Toby?’
‘Me’ he smooths his tie, ‘I’m a club sandwich.’
‘The version with non-poncey cocktail sticks poked through?’
‘Touché! That’s more like it! Now if only you can stop looking like a bum and get in touch with your inner smart man, you could be decent company.’
’Thanks Toby! How about you meet me halfway and get in touch with your inner bum.’
Andy laughs, shaking his head, ’Battle of wits!’ and heads for the bar humming Bread of Heaven.
70. Atmosphere
It’s too late for me now to study whatever field it is but if I could, I would. Stuff like how do you ‘feel’ you are being watched? Thinking about someone the moment before the phone rings and it’s them. Walking into a room and sensing ‘an atmosphere’. The Dun Cow had an atmosphere, one of those cut with a knife ones, and I got it the moment I stepped inside. Andy’s and Toby’s greetings are wan, there’s no rippling talk or laughter buzz.
Before I go for drinks I ask ’What’s up? It’s like a morgue in here!’
Andy and Toby exchange a meaningful look and Toby says ‘You might joke about it but I think it’s a crying shame.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘Hear about what?’
‘Are you saying you don’t know?’
‘All I know is I don’t know what you’re on about Toby.’
‘Maybe he’s psychic.’ Andy says.
I sense a hint of humour but still can’t make it fit the moment, ’I don’t do psychic and I don’t do cryptic either, what’s going on?’
Toby does weary, ’Get the drinks in.’ As I make for the bar he calls after me, ’While you can!’
I come back with drinks, trying to piece together atmosphere and words. Toby raises his pint, ’To The Dun Cow’
‘The Dun Cow’ Andy responds. They wait for me.
‘Okay. The Dun Cow’ and drink. ’So what do you think I know that I don’t?’
I can see Toby is tempted to seize this opportunity but he composes himself and says, ‘Word is, The Dun Cow is going to be sold. Closing down.’
‘Word? Do you mean…rumour?’
‘Landlord’s not denying it!’ Andy says.
Toby places his pint carefully on the table, leans in, ‘And what would you say if I told you the Co-Op wants it, to turn it into a funeral home?’
‘I’d say they must have been scoping the regulars.’
Toby assembles an expression of disgust, Andy nods appreciatively.
Thinking we might be needing some whiskies I ask ‘Do you think they’ll still serve stiff drinks?’
Toby ups it, facially. ‘You know what you are?’
‘Go on.’
‘Frivolous!’
‘Now now Toby! You’ve had me believing all this time that you’re Mr market forces, Mr laissez-faire economics.’
‘You don’t care, do you?’
‘I do. Somewhat. But pubs to funeral homes is an economic happening. The kind of thing you keep saying we have to face up to’
Andy intervenes, ’Toby has brought some info, about running community pubs.’
‘He couldn’t care less, Andy!’
’I’ve often wondered if the trickle down effect of Thatcher’s “no such thing as society” is no such thing as community.’
Toby gets angry with me, ’You’re just out for a fight!’
‘No.’
‘What’s with the Thatcher hate then?’
I stun Toby into silence by revealing that I voted Conservative, once.
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘I did! It was when Thatcher became leader.’
Toby is stunned plus.
‘Got to say, that’s hard to believe of you.’ Andy says.
‘I voted in the hope that a woman Prime Minister would bring a welcome change to all the testosterone politics.‘
‘Well, you were right at least once in your life!’
‘Toby, I’ve had nightmares about how wrong I was ever since. My experience of womankind back then was all positive, I won’t talk about the mankind. It was later in life I got a better understanding, when the best boss I ever had explained how it played out for her.’ I’m getting blanked but plough on. ‘She told me that in the power structure dominated by men, the only way she could progress, be heard, manage, was to outman them.’
’So she was a success then!’
‘At the cost of not being able to be who she really was or do what she really wanted.’
’That’s not how it is now!’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t know why I bother!’ Toby pulls a gift-wrapped little box from his pocket and throws it on the table, ‘Happy belated birthday anyway. Here’s your poxy present!’ It’s a razor, as he had threatened. ‘Get rid of that stubble!’
‘Whiskers are the only thing I can grow on my head since I went bald.’
‘That’s why I didn’t buy you a comb!’ He runs his fingers through his hair. Sighs fondly. ‘And you thought I didn’t do empathy.’
It’s the first chance of the evening to laugh together. ’Thanks Toby.’
‘You’re welcome. But don’t forget it’s middle-class Guardian lefties like you that do all the talking and none of the doing. You’re the real laissez-faire mob! Whilst all around you on high streets up and down the country, there’s carnage! An apocalypse!’
This pigeon’s feathers were ruffled getting stuffed into that hole, but I restrain myself and try keeping it light. ’I love the smell of wood burners in the evening’ sinks without trace.
Andy points at the sheaf of papers on the table, ’Have a look at what Toby’s brought anyway.’
I glance through them, then taking them to the bar, order whiskies and hold up the top page to the landlord - How to set up a Community Pub . ’We were wondering about The Dun Cow. Any point us doing some serious reading?’
Before I go for drinks I ask ’What’s up? It’s like a morgue in here!’
Andy and Toby exchange a meaningful look and Toby says ‘You might joke about it but I think it’s a crying shame.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘How did you hear about it?’
‘Hear about what?’
‘Are you saying you don’t know?’
‘All I know is I don’t know what you’re on about Toby.’
‘Maybe he’s psychic.’ Andy says.
I sense a hint of humour but still can’t make it fit the moment, ’I don’t do psychic and I don’t do cryptic either, what’s going on?’
Toby does weary, ’Get the drinks in.’ As I make for the bar he calls after me, ’While you can!’
I come back with drinks, trying to piece together atmosphere and words. Toby raises his pint, ’To The Dun Cow’
‘The Dun Cow’ Andy responds. They wait for me.
‘Okay. The Dun Cow’ and drink. ’So what do you think I know that I don’t?’
I can see Toby is tempted to seize this opportunity but he composes himself and says, ‘Word is, The Dun Cow is going to be sold. Closing down.’
‘Word? Do you mean…rumour?’
‘Landlord’s not denying it!’ Andy says.
Toby places his pint carefully on the table, leans in, ‘And what would you say if I told you the Co-Op wants it, to turn it into a funeral home?’
‘I’d say they must have been scoping the regulars.’
Toby assembles an expression of disgust, Andy nods appreciatively.
Thinking we might be needing some whiskies I ask ‘Do you think they’ll still serve stiff drinks?’
Toby ups it, facially. ‘You know what you are?’
‘Go on.’
‘Frivolous!’
‘Now now Toby! You’ve had me believing all this time that you’re Mr market forces, Mr laissez-faire economics.’
‘You don’t care, do you?’
‘I do. Somewhat. But pubs to funeral homes is an economic happening. The kind of thing you keep saying we have to face up to’
Andy intervenes, ’Toby has brought some info, about running community pubs.’
‘He couldn’t care less, Andy!’
’I’ve often wondered if the trickle down effect of Thatcher’s “no such thing as society” is no such thing as community.’
Toby gets angry with me, ’You’re just out for a fight!’
‘No.’
‘What’s with the Thatcher hate then?’
I stun Toby into silence by revealing that I voted Conservative, once.
‘I don’t believe you!’
‘I did! It was when Thatcher became leader.’
Toby is stunned plus.
‘Got to say, that’s hard to believe of you.’ Andy says.
‘I voted in the hope that a woman Prime Minister would bring a welcome change to all the testosterone politics.‘
‘Well, you were right at least once in your life!’
‘Toby, I’ve had nightmares about how wrong I was ever since. My experience of womankind back then was all positive, I won’t talk about the mankind. It was later in life I got a better understanding, when the best boss I ever had explained how it played out for her.’ I’m getting blanked but plough on. ‘She told me that in the power structure dominated by men, the only way she could progress, be heard, manage, was to outman them.’
’So she was a success then!’
‘At the cost of not being able to be who she really was or do what she really wanted.’
’That’s not how it is now!’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t know why I bother!’ Toby pulls a gift-wrapped little box from his pocket and throws it on the table, ‘Happy belated birthday anyway. Here’s your poxy present!’ It’s a razor, as he had threatened. ‘Get rid of that stubble!’
‘Whiskers are the only thing I can grow on my head since I went bald.’
‘That’s why I didn’t buy you a comb!’ He runs his fingers through his hair. Sighs fondly. ‘And you thought I didn’t do empathy.’
It’s the first chance of the evening to laugh together. ’Thanks Toby.’
‘You’re welcome. But don’t forget it’s middle-class Guardian lefties like you that do all the talking and none of the doing. You’re the real laissez-faire mob! Whilst all around you on high streets up and down the country, there’s carnage! An apocalypse!’
This pigeon’s feathers were ruffled getting stuffed into that hole, but I restrain myself and try keeping it light. ’I love the smell of wood burners in the evening’ sinks without trace.
Andy points at the sheaf of papers on the table, ’Have a look at what Toby’s brought anyway.’
I glance through them, then taking them to the bar, order whiskies and hold up the top page to the landlord - How to set up a Community Pub . ’We were wondering about The Dun Cow. Any point us doing some serious reading?’
71. Three's a crowd
We’re at The Dun Cow following our visit to the Ludlight Brewery on the industrial estate where we’ve been sampling and chatting at an open evening. Andy, bringing our regular bevvies to the table says ‘I might put a few bob into their crowdfunding.’
‘What, those hipsters?’
I wonder aloud whether Toby considers them businessmen.
’Tattoos, beards and piercings - begging bowl out for money - no, I don’t!’
’So what did you think of their beer?’
’OK - I’ve had better.’
Andy slants in, ‘If they get to take over this pub, will you still come here?’
‘Not if they change the name.’ Toby gives me a theatrical sneer, ‘Especially not to your bloody stupid idea!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw the name you put in the suggestion box.’ He turns to Andy and begs the question, ‘Would you still come here if it was called The Rat and Sofa?’
Whilst Andy makes puzzled show of weighing this up I challenge Toby, ‘So you were spying over my shoulder!’
’So what? I knew you would come up with some crap suggestion for the sake of it and I was right! Where’d you get that one from? Been on the illicit substances again?’
’Next best thing.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s that?’
‘Listening to you! When you were boring the arse off that woman - trying to impress her talking about conservatory stuff! We have a rattan sofa!’
’So you were earwigging our conversation!’
‘Hard not to now I’ve got these hearing aids, and as you said, so what? Who goes to an open evening at a brewery and tries to ladies’ man it talking about their conservatory?’
‘I wasn’t trying to impress her!’
‘You’ll be happy to know you didn’t then.’
Toby puts bite into ‘Oh? And how would you know Andy?
’She told me she was relieved to get away from some bloke going on and on about his conservatory.’
‘Cherchez la femme, Andy? Or is that - Don Juan?’ Toby wetlips a horrible pout.
‘That femme cherchezed me, thanks to you making me so attractive.’
‘It’s the quiet Juans you have to watch out for Toby.’
He looks away from me, ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’
‘Like you do when someone says your round?’
It’s unlike Andy to be snarky and Toby has always stood his round for as long as I’ve known him. But I recognise in their exchange one of the key and enduring themes of male friendship. Chuck in the workings of sexual attraction, real or imagined, and it’s peacock time - your mates can go fuck themselves. I use their froideur to contemplate how much I might afford to put into the crowdfunding. As things stand, if Ludlight Brewery doesn’t get The Dun Cow it becomes a co-op funeral home. ‘I think I’ll be joining you with the crowdfunding Andy.’
‘Waste of money!’
‘Would you rather the funeral home option Toby?’
’No! But there has to be some way of preventing that!’
‘We could try persuading people to stop dying.’ My deathly quip brings edgy civility to Andy’s voice when he says to Toby ‘Why don’t you ask some of your backscratchers about crowdfunding, maybe even rustle up some extra input from them?’
‘Backscratchers!? Did you just say backscratchers!?’
‘Yeah. All those different clubs, societies and funny handshake mobs you belong to. All those backscratchers.’
Toby meets Andy’s stare, pulses his jaw muscles, flares his nostrils. It’s all good, regulation display but I’m worried it might curdle my beer, ‘Tell you what Toby, pretend you didn’t hear that too.’
Now Andy turns his stare on me, ‘Why did you say that? You feel the same as me about those mobs - more so!’
‘Well it’s usually you who acts the peacemaker. I was trying to return the favour.’
I was trying, too. But I lacked both conviction and practice; stares and bristling gather charges for sparks. The evening had taken a sour turn and it seemed that Andy and Toby were ready to take it to the bitter end. So I said goodnight, thanks for the beer I didn’t finish, and left for home where I thought I’d do the Guardian Quick Crossword online and read the comments. The crossword was easy enough despite falling one short as I frequently do. Maybe I was still uneased by the turn of the evening but many of the comments seemed tuned to the Andy and Toby vibe - last word battles of petty challenges and pedantic exchanges, wilful misunderstanding and assertive certainty. I tried the radio but the ubiquity of politics and Brexit offered the same again, from people who count these as professional credentials. Turning to a book, I’d only been reading for a few minutes when an ocular migraine hit. This seemed apposite to end the evening so I lay back and closed my eyes to wait out the light show. As it faded, I was picturing a pub sign of a rat sitting casually on a sofa in the style of E H Shepard’s illustrations for Wind in the Willows, when it was suddenly displaced by one in gold on black for The Backscratcher’s Arms. I think I need a break. From what, I have yet to work out.
‘What, those hipsters?’
I wonder aloud whether Toby considers them businessmen.
’Tattoos, beards and piercings - begging bowl out for money - no, I don’t!’
’So what did you think of their beer?’
’OK - I’ve had better.’
Andy slants in, ‘If they get to take over this pub, will you still come here?’
‘Not if they change the name.’ Toby gives me a theatrical sneer, ‘Especially not to your bloody stupid idea!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I saw the name you put in the suggestion box.’ He turns to Andy and begs the question, ‘Would you still come here if it was called The Rat and Sofa?’
Whilst Andy makes puzzled show of weighing this up I challenge Toby, ‘So you were spying over my shoulder!’
’So what? I knew you would come up with some crap suggestion for the sake of it and I was right! Where’d you get that one from? Been on the illicit substances again?’
’Next best thing.’
‘Oh yeah? What’s that?’
‘Listening to you! When you were boring the arse off that woman - trying to impress her talking about conservatory stuff! We have a rattan sofa!’
’So you were earwigging our conversation!’
‘Hard not to now I’ve got these hearing aids, and as you said, so what? Who goes to an open evening at a brewery and tries to ladies’ man it talking about their conservatory?’
‘I wasn’t trying to impress her!’
‘You’ll be happy to know you didn’t then.’
Toby puts bite into ‘Oh? And how would you know Andy?
’She told me she was relieved to get away from some bloke going on and on about his conservatory.’
‘Cherchez la femme, Andy? Or is that - Don Juan?’ Toby wetlips a horrible pout.
‘That femme cherchezed me, thanks to you making me so attractive.’
‘It’s the quiet Juans you have to watch out for Toby.’
He looks away from me, ‘I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.’
‘Like you do when someone says your round?’
It’s unlike Andy to be snarky and Toby has always stood his round for as long as I’ve known him. But I recognise in their exchange one of the key and enduring themes of male friendship. Chuck in the workings of sexual attraction, real or imagined, and it’s peacock time - your mates can go fuck themselves. I use their froideur to contemplate how much I might afford to put into the crowdfunding. As things stand, if Ludlight Brewery doesn’t get The Dun Cow it becomes a co-op funeral home. ‘I think I’ll be joining you with the crowdfunding Andy.’
‘Waste of money!’
‘Would you rather the funeral home option Toby?’
’No! But there has to be some way of preventing that!’
‘We could try persuading people to stop dying.’ My deathly quip brings edgy civility to Andy’s voice when he says to Toby ‘Why don’t you ask some of your backscratchers about crowdfunding, maybe even rustle up some extra input from them?’
‘Backscratchers!? Did you just say backscratchers!?’
‘Yeah. All those different clubs, societies and funny handshake mobs you belong to. All those backscratchers.’
Toby meets Andy’s stare, pulses his jaw muscles, flares his nostrils. It’s all good, regulation display but I’m worried it might curdle my beer, ‘Tell you what Toby, pretend you didn’t hear that too.’
Now Andy turns his stare on me, ‘Why did you say that? You feel the same as me about those mobs - more so!’
‘Well it’s usually you who acts the peacemaker. I was trying to return the favour.’
I was trying, too. But I lacked both conviction and practice; stares and bristling gather charges for sparks. The evening had taken a sour turn and it seemed that Andy and Toby were ready to take it to the bitter end. So I said goodnight, thanks for the beer I didn’t finish, and left for home where I thought I’d do the Guardian Quick Crossword online and read the comments. The crossword was easy enough despite falling one short as I frequently do. Maybe I was still uneased by the turn of the evening but many of the comments seemed tuned to the Andy and Toby vibe - last word battles of petty challenges and pedantic exchanges, wilful misunderstanding and assertive certainty. I tried the radio but the ubiquity of politics and Brexit offered the same again, from people who count these as professional credentials. Turning to a book, I’d only been reading for a few minutes when an ocular migraine hit. This seemed apposite to end the evening so I lay back and closed my eyes to wait out the light show. As it faded, I was picturing a pub sign of a rat sitting casually on a sofa in the style of E H Shepard’s illustrations for Wind in the Willows, when it was suddenly displaced by one in gold on black for The Backscratcher’s Arms. I think I need a break. From what, I have yet to work out.
72. All Things Must Pass
The knock of our arched-back cat door knocker is pathetic but it’s plenty enough to get Flynn going, so really our dog is our door knocker and he’s letting us know
Toby is here. When I open the door he looks at me a bit leery and steps back, Carol deftly avoids a treading. ‘That’s a plastic eyepatch...’ I smile and nod, ‘...like
kiddies wear to be a pirate.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why are you wearing it over your ear?’
‘To hold the kitchen roll in place.’
Toby drops his shoulders and sighs because he knows he can’t resist, ‘What’s the kitchen roll for?’
’To soak up the olive oil.’
I smile at Carol over his shoulder. She’s silently laughing. He calls over my shoulder into the house, ‘Georgie! Has he been smoking that stuff again?’
A far-off voice replies ‘What do you think?’
‘Explains it.’
‘Hold on!’ I say, ‘That explains nothing, it’s all about what’s to hand practicalities. Earwax issue. Olive oil in ear, followed by earplug to keep the oil in, then kitchen
roll over the ear in case the plug leaks and the eyepatch to keep the kitchen roll in place.’
Toby gives Carol a see how lucky you were to get me instead look and laughs as if indulging a bright infant, ‘Why don’t you just lie down with your head to one side?’
‘Because then I couldn’t come out with you for our meal!’
‘If you think you’re coming with us looking like that!’
‘What do you take me for?’
I unsnag my beanie hat from the coathanger and demonstrate how it covers up, ‘Voila!’
‘You’re definitely not coming with us now!’
‘Come on in, we’re almost ready.’
They decline my offer of an aperitif. This evening’s invitation is welcome and a mystery. We are going to Carol’s favourite Thai restaurant, their treat, ‘We insist’. I know Toby well enough to suspect there is more to it than a meal with friends, and myself well enough to be irked by not thinking about it more graciously. As I discard the tie for the third time and comfort my neck with a cravat, I think about how there are bits of being me I would like to switch off now and again.
It was still early when Georgie and me got back home so I set a fire in the burner, staring through the rising flames as I said to them absently, ‘Yeats had it.’
‘Had what?’
I reply with deepening absence, ‘Things fall apart.’
‘I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out.’
‘Thanks Georgie’, I think, ‘but it seems unlikely’. I stir myself to get some glasses and the whisky bottle, ’Straight? Water? Ginger?’
‘Water please.’
In kitchen-contemplative mood, I make a bit of zen out of loading and carrying a tray with drinks, glasses, candles, incense, scallop shell ashtray, pink glass table lighter and my treasure chest tin of rolling paraphernalia. It would have been quicker to make two trips but it gave space to think on Toby’s news.
The brewery bid had been withdrawn and the Co-Op were going to turn The Dun Cow into a funeral home. I never could get that home bit. And it seemed both
strange and right, if it were going to happen at all, that Toby and Andy had fallen out over its future. After I had left them facing each other off last time, things had
taken a turn for the worse.
‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend,’ Toby got round to saying over his massaman curry, ‘but it’s finished with Andy and me.’
‘Don’t be daft!’
’No. It’s over!’
‘Really? What happened?’
Things were said, he says, though he won’t say what. Just that it got ‘Personal, hurtful. Things you can’t take back.’
‘One way traffic?’ I ask. And Toby colours up and I know it’s not the curry as he’s one of those guys who takes pride in being able to eat sillyhot stuff without fainting.
‘Was it about the crowdfunding thing?’
‘In a way. But more about...he said stuff about, you know, I belong to some organisations and he...well, let’s just say he got extremely insulting and leave it at
that.’
’So are you saying I’m not going to see you and Andy together at The Dun Cow anymore?’
‘Over my dead body!’
I resisted the Co-Op joke but coloured up because I still thought it at a time I was supposed to be serious. I lack gravitas. Said it was the curry.
’So when I speak to Andy, is he going to be telling me about how you said personal, hurtful things?’
‘I’m not a turn the other cheek kind of man.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. The conversation Georgie and Carol were having, though tactfully totally different, still had enough gaps to keep them abreast of ours. With all the gaps falling together we suddenly seemed awkward and the occasion though generous, became joyless.
Flynn moves closer to the fire and as I put candles and incense about, Georgie remarks how ‘That level of falling out is a very bloke thing, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe’ I say, striking a match, ‘But that pyromaniacal level of bridge burning is.’
Rolling one for some lumination, I try recalling something philosophical for perspective. Truth is I’m not high-minded and even with so much prized thinking to call upon The Big Lebowski cut in with 'I can't be worrying about that shit. Life goes on, man.'
Toby is here. When I open the door he looks at me a bit leery and steps back, Carol deftly avoids a treading. ‘That’s a plastic eyepatch...’ I smile and nod, ‘...like
kiddies wear to be a pirate.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why are you wearing it over your ear?’
‘To hold the kitchen roll in place.’
Toby drops his shoulders and sighs because he knows he can’t resist, ‘What’s the kitchen roll for?’
’To soak up the olive oil.’
I smile at Carol over his shoulder. She’s silently laughing. He calls over my shoulder into the house, ‘Georgie! Has he been smoking that stuff again?’
A far-off voice replies ‘What do you think?’
‘Explains it.’
‘Hold on!’ I say, ‘That explains nothing, it’s all about what’s to hand practicalities. Earwax issue. Olive oil in ear, followed by earplug to keep the oil in, then kitchen
roll over the ear in case the plug leaks and the eyepatch to keep the kitchen roll in place.’
Toby gives Carol a see how lucky you were to get me instead look and laughs as if indulging a bright infant, ‘Why don’t you just lie down with your head to one side?’
‘Because then I couldn’t come out with you for our meal!’
‘If you think you’re coming with us looking like that!’
‘What do you take me for?’
I unsnag my beanie hat from the coathanger and demonstrate how it covers up, ‘Voila!’
‘You’re definitely not coming with us now!’
‘Come on in, we’re almost ready.’
They decline my offer of an aperitif. This evening’s invitation is welcome and a mystery. We are going to Carol’s favourite Thai restaurant, their treat, ‘We insist’. I know Toby well enough to suspect there is more to it than a meal with friends, and myself well enough to be irked by not thinking about it more graciously. As I discard the tie for the third time and comfort my neck with a cravat, I think about how there are bits of being me I would like to switch off now and again.
It was still early when Georgie and me got back home so I set a fire in the burner, staring through the rising flames as I said to them absently, ‘Yeats had it.’
‘Had what?’
I reply with deepening absence, ‘Things fall apart.’
‘I’m sure it’ll all get sorted out.’
‘Thanks Georgie’, I think, ‘but it seems unlikely’. I stir myself to get some glasses and the whisky bottle, ’Straight? Water? Ginger?’
‘Water please.’
In kitchen-contemplative mood, I make a bit of zen out of loading and carrying a tray with drinks, glasses, candles, incense, scallop shell ashtray, pink glass table lighter and my treasure chest tin of rolling paraphernalia. It would have been quicker to make two trips but it gave space to think on Toby’s news.
The brewery bid had been withdrawn and the Co-Op were going to turn The Dun Cow into a funeral home. I never could get that home bit. And it seemed both
strange and right, if it were going to happen at all, that Toby and Andy had fallen out over its future. After I had left them facing each other off last time, things had
taken a turn for the worse.
‘I don’t want to lose you as a friend,’ Toby got round to saying over his massaman curry, ‘but it’s finished with Andy and me.’
‘Don’t be daft!’
’No. It’s over!’
‘Really? What happened?’
Things were said, he says, though he won’t say what. Just that it got ‘Personal, hurtful. Things you can’t take back.’
‘One way traffic?’ I ask. And Toby colours up and I know it’s not the curry as he’s one of those guys who takes pride in being able to eat sillyhot stuff without fainting.
‘Was it about the crowdfunding thing?’
‘In a way. But more about...he said stuff about, you know, I belong to some organisations and he...well, let’s just say he got extremely insulting and leave it at
that.’
’So are you saying I’m not going to see you and Andy together at The Dun Cow anymore?’
‘Over my dead body!’
I resisted the Co-Op joke but coloured up because I still thought it at a time I was supposed to be serious. I lack gravitas. Said it was the curry.
’So when I speak to Andy, is he going to be telling me about how you said personal, hurtful things?’
‘I’m not a turn the other cheek kind of man.’
I didn’t know what to say to that. The conversation Georgie and Carol were having, though tactfully totally different, still had enough gaps to keep them abreast of ours. With all the gaps falling together we suddenly seemed awkward and the occasion though generous, became joyless.
Flynn moves closer to the fire and as I put candles and incense about, Georgie remarks how ‘That level of falling out is a very bloke thing, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe’ I say, striking a match, ‘But that pyromaniacal level of bridge burning is.’
Rolling one for some lumination, I try recalling something philosophical for perspective. Truth is I’m not high-minded and even with so much prized thinking to call upon The Big Lebowski cut in with 'I can't be worrying about that shit. Life goes on, man.'
73. England is a State of Mind
The map on my iPad is striking. Yellow highlands cliffing the north, some green fringed westings, and pushing north and west whilst engulfing carmine cities, seas of cerulean blue. As I wait, nursing my pint, to see whether Andy or Toby will accept my invitation, I try practicing stoicism but I don’t know enough about it and more than enough about the colours on that map. Anyway, overheard conversations around me intrude dark illuminations.
‘Did you bother voting after all?’
’Yeah, the Mrs kept on at me about the right to vote and all that, but they’re all rubbish aren’t they? I voted for the lesser of two evils.’
‘I voted for the lesser of two wankers.’
I’m wondering who they mean as they share a laugh. I’d like to join them but it dies in me, way down, though not before sparking the kind of unlooked for hope in ascension that Shakespeare could surprise with,
“Presume not that I am the thing I was;
For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self;
So will I those that kept me company.”
I’m beginning to think the hope that I’ll have company is of the vain kind when I spot Andy limping heavily towards me. He throws himself into a seat almost before he gets to it.
‘Is this a ruse to avoid going to the bar?’
‘Good to see you too! I’ll reveal all in exchange for a pint.’
When he started revealing over his pint, I thought it was just the kind of thing that would happen to me. ‘We’ve been watching Election 2019 stuff on the telly today. Olga’s phlegmatic, I’m angry. We argued. Leaving home to come here, I booted an empty plastic flowerpot that wasn’t empty…you can laugh!’
‘What was in it?’
‘Horticultural grit. Leathered it. My big toe’s still swelling as we speak!’
‘Good to see you Andy!’ I laugh.
‘I’ll have to get a cab home.’
My laughter is cut short as I see Toby arrive. This is when it can all go wrong, and when I see Toby thunder-face-seeing-Andy-with-me, that’s how I think it’s going to go. I beckon him over but he turns to leave. I rush to get between him and the door, ’Toby! I know what you said about you and Andy falling out but you’re both friends of mine and I’m too old and too clumsy to juggle friends.’ I’ve stopped him leaving, good start. ‘Come and have a drink, my shout. I was about to try and convince Andy he has to go to hospital but you know what he’s like.’
‘Hospital?’
‘I think he needs to get it checked out.’
‘Get what checked out?’ Toby’s concern is genuine.
I go sotto voce for effect, ‘Sshh! He’s watching! Don’t let him know I’ve told you anything!’ I lead Toby to the table where Andy is doing distant frost. ‘Okay so I lied to you both to try getting you both here. I know we’re mugs for lies because I’ve been following the election. And you’re both here…’
Nothing. Toby still standing. Andy not thawing. ‘Here’s something for you. Drinks are on me tonight if you at least try to settle your differences, bury the hatchet, shake hands, rub noses, smoke a peace pipe, rapproche the bloody ment or whatever else you call it. All you have to do is try and the drinks on me offer is good. If you try and fail - if you refuse to try - take me off your Christmas card list, delete my number, take me out of the future and put me in the memory bank. I’m off to the bar for a double or two on my tod to wait for the declaration.’
From my stool at the bar I watch them broken up reflected in the mirror behind the upside down opticed bottles. It’s not long watching inanimation before I conclude with a heavy settling certainty that I am prepared to cut adrift with the fresh page new chapter drawing line under finality that is starting to feel the right thing for right now. I’ve done it before. It’s liberating. I’m on my second when Toby joins me at the bar. ‘Start getting those drinks in and come and join us.’
I use the mirror again to watch them, their body language, facial expressions are quickly readopting familiar but neglected routines. I see them shake hands.
‘Would you have done it?’ Andy asks me.
‘Yes.’
‘Just cut us off - like that!’, Toby snaps his fingers.
‘I try to be a man of my word.’
Toby gives me a searching stare, ‘About Andy’s condition…’
‘Handy that wasn’t it?’
Toby points at Andy’s foot but thinks better of saying it. He is all restraint, today would be the day for him to revel and gloat, he has his Boris. He could easily grind the ashes of my hopes under jibes and triumphalism. Maybe he senses my Friday 13th fragility. I’m sure he’ll take his time to have his day or he wouldn’t be Toby.
‘Anyway, I needed to get us together as we have something important to discuss.’ I have their attention. ‘It’s a new era.’ I see the concern in their faces that I’m going to talk politics. ‘Where are we going to meet for drinks when this place closes down?’
‘Did you bother voting after all?’
’Yeah, the Mrs kept on at me about the right to vote and all that, but they’re all rubbish aren’t they? I voted for the lesser of two evils.’
‘I voted for the lesser of two wankers.’
I’m wondering who they mean as they share a laugh. I’d like to join them but it dies in me, way down, though not before sparking the kind of unlooked for hope in ascension that Shakespeare could surprise with,
“Presume not that I am the thing I was;
For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turn'd away my former self;
So will I those that kept me company.”
I’m beginning to think the hope that I’ll have company is of the vain kind when I spot Andy limping heavily towards me. He throws himself into a seat almost before he gets to it.
‘Is this a ruse to avoid going to the bar?’
‘Good to see you too! I’ll reveal all in exchange for a pint.’
When he started revealing over his pint, I thought it was just the kind of thing that would happen to me. ‘We’ve been watching Election 2019 stuff on the telly today. Olga’s phlegmatic, I’m angry. We argued. Leaving home to come here, I booted an empty plastic flowerpot that wasn’t empty…you can laugh!’
‘What was in it?’
‘Horticultural grit. Leathered it. My big toe’s still swelling as we speak!’
‘Good to see you Andy!’ I laugh.
‘I’ll have to get a cab home.’
My laughter is cut short as I see Toby arrive. This is when it can all go wrong, and when I see Toby thunder-face-seeing-Andy-with-me, that’s how I think it’s going to go. I beckon him over but he turns to leave. I rush to get between him and the door, ’Toby! I know what you said about you and Andy falling out but you’re both friends of mine and I’m too old and too clumsy to juggle friends.’ I’ve stopped him leaving, good start. ‘Come and have a drink, my shout. I was about to try and convince Andy he has to go to hospital but you know what he’s like.’
‘Hospital?’
‘I think he needs to get it checked out.’
‘Get what checked out?’ Toby’s concern is genuine.
I go sotto voce for effect, ‘Sshh! He’s watching! Don’t let him know I’ve told you anything!’ I lead Toby to the table where Andy is doing distant frost. ‘Okay so I lied to you both to try getting you both here. I know we’re mugs for lies because I’ve been following the election. And you’re both here…’
Nothing. Toby still standing. Andy not thawing. ‘Here’s something for you. Drinks are on me tonight if you at least try to settle your differences, bury the hatchet, shake hands, rub noses, smoke a peace pipe, rapproche the bloody ment or whatever else you call it. All you have to do is try and the drinks on me offer is good. If you try and fail - if you refuse to try - take me off your Christmas card list, delete my number, take me out of the future and put me in the memory bank. I’m off to the bar for a double or two on my tod to wait for the declaration.’
From my stool at the bar I watch them broken up reflected in the mirror behind the upside down opticed bottles. It’s not long watching inanimation before I conclude with a heavy settling certainty that I am prepared to cut adrift with the fresh page new chapter drawing line under finality that is starting to feel the right thing for right now. I’ve done it before. It’s liberating. I’m on my second when Toby joins me at the bar. ‘Start getting those drinks in and come and join us.’
I use the mirror again to watch them, their body language, facial expressions are quickly readopting familiar but neglected routines. I see them shake hands.
‘Would you have done it?’ Andy asks me.
‘Yes.’
‘Just cut us off - like that!’, Toby snaps his fingers.
‘I try to be a man of my word.’
Toby gives me a searching stare, ‘About Andy’s condition…’
‘Handy that wasn’t it?’
Toby points at Andy’s foot but thinks better of saying it. He is all restraint, today would be the day for him to revel and gloat, he has his Boris. He could easily grind the ashes of my hopes under jibes and triumphalism. Maybe he senses my Friday 13th fragility. I’m sure he’ll take his time to have his day or he wouldn’t be Toby.
‘Anyway, I needed to get us together as we have something important to discuss.’ I have their attention. ‘It’s a new era.’ I see the concern in their faces that I’m going to talk politics. ‘Where are we going to meet for drinks when this place closes down?’
74. &WHAT?
‘That really is the end!’ Toby’s voice breaks a little and I shoot a tear-searching glance his way. I’m standing with Andy and Toby, looking through the safety fencing erected around The ex Dun Cow. It was only ever an unexceptional pub with no go back a long way history or architectural merit but we’ve had some good sessions there. Its purchase with permission to convert to a co-op funeral home meant the end of its life as a pub was imminent anyway but it got imminenter with a fire in the kitchen annexe two days ago. The smell of wet, burned building is still strong and making me nauseous. I already feel a strong detachment, ’Okay, so now we’ve seen it, where are we going for a drink?’
‘I thought we should take some time for a last look - to remember it.’ Toby chides.
‘I’d rather not remember it like this Toby.’
‘Agreed.’ Andy says, ‘So where are we going for a drink then?’
After a brief cycle of you chose, no you choose we set off for The Blue Bell Inn. Once there, Toby cannot hide his delight in finding Dad’s Army themed local guest beers on the pumps and brings three pints of Mainwaring’s Mild to our unfamiliar table in its unfamiliar corner, ‘It’s not so bad here is it? I wonder where the rest of The Dun Cow diaspora have gone?’
Andy holds his beer up to the light and asks if we’ve heard the rumours about the fire?
‘What rumours?’
‘Dark rumours…’
Tittletattletime.
‘There’s a couple.’ Enjoying the telling, Andy drops his voice to a conspiracy level that requires us to lean in to hear. ‘One: that the landlord started it for some kind of insurance scam. I don’t go for that. The other is that some loan shark’s torched it as a warning.’
‘Warning for what?’
‘Didn’t you know the landlord is seriously in debt?’
We didn’t know.
‘Gambling. Wife’s left him, children won’t speak to him, some people want to do him damage.’
‘A life gone wrong!’ Toby sighs.
‘There’s a still darker rumour.’ Their faces turn to me in grim expectation. ‘A ritual burning of all their Harry and Meghan wedding memorabilia got out of control.’
Andy’s appreciation of my version firms Toby up, ‘You know, I sometimes wonder if you’ve had a total sympathy bypass.’
‘I prefer empathy Toby.'
'Empathy?'
'I prefer it so much that if I wasn’t strict with myself I’d be crying every day of the bloody week.’
‘What’s the difference between sympathy and empathy then?’
Toby gives me his cop that smartarse smirk. ‘Good question Andy!’
My overhead smartarse smash return cut away when I got panged. ‘Empathy means I think about being them, sympathy might cost money!’ I feel instantly trashy.
‘Well sympathise with the bar. Your round.’
We finish our pints. Trashywonderingly I ask ‘Same again?’
‘Something a bit stronger?’ Andy suggests and Toby nods.
‘A Dad’s Army one!’ Toby Tobies over his shoulder.
I settle the beers on our table.
‘What’s this one called then?’
‘Their strongest.’
’Is it a Dad’s Army beer?!’
I hesitate dully.
Toby spreads his hands, ‘It’s what I asked for! We need to think local, support local businesses. It’s not Rocket Science!…’ he screws an index finger into a temple, ‘…Beer. Equals. Dad’s Army!’
‘And he’s a fan!’ Andy teases.
I fauxfeign recall, ’It's Stupid Boy Ale.’ Andy’s appreciation of my improv firms Toby up. Again.
‘Of course! What can you expect from the man who thinks The Rat and Sofa would be a good name for a pub!'
‘Rat&Sofa.’ I feel compelled to correct.
‘Those tattoo beardy brewery guys probably love that!’ Toby shakes his head - he has them pegged as tragically hip. ‘Those Beeristas! With respect….’
‘i.e. without it!’
Toby dismisses Andy with his eyelids, turns to me. ‘With respect! My suggestion - and I know you don’t rate tradition, but I do…’
I take mild offence. ‘I don’t don’t rate tradition! I didn’t…’
Toby dismisses me with his eyelids. ‘You’re talking crap. My idea was in the spirit of a traditional English pub.’ We think he’s finished and both go to speak when he jumps back in. ‘Time-worn but in a historical way…that connects you with generations of meeting and drinking…’
Andy shrugs ‘Blokes having a beer…?’
‘Gentlemen having a beer! Conviviality! Civility!’
‘Where are we now?’ Andy asks, ‘Public, Lounge, Saloon?’
‘You are in my pub. And my pub is…’
That’s it! I need that resolution! ’Okay so what was your suggestion then? You keep taking the piss out of my Rat&Sofa. Your pub is called...?’
As Toby’s lips lapse into a step back in wonder smirk, Andy suddenly cranks up a ‘West Country Accent’ so far west it’s thrashing about in the Atlantic, ‘Ye Olde White Farte.’
I’m sure Toby felt a bit offended - I felt a bit offended for him. I can’t tell if that’s sympathy or empathy because Toby and me are in hysterics over the most terrible shite bit of Mumbleshire conceivably utterable. Andy is laughing too, which makes us notch it up because we can tell he thinks we’re laughing at his joke. Toby points at Andy’s glass, ‘It is Stupid Boy Ale!’
I still don’t know what Toby’s suggestion was.
‘I thought we should take some time for a last look - to remember it.’ Toby chides.
‘I’d rather not remember it like this Toby.’
‘Agreed.’ Andy says, ‘So where are we going for a drink then?’
After a brief cycle of you chose, no you choose we set off for The Blue Bell Inn. Once there, Toby cannot hide his delight in finding Dad’s Army themed local guest beers on the pumps and brings three pints of Mainwaring’s Mild to our unfamiliar table in its unfamiliar corner, ‘It’s not so bad here is it? I wonder where the rest of The Dun Cow diaspora have gone?’
Andy holds his beer up to the light and asks if we’ve heard the rumours about the fire?
‘What rumours?’
‘Dark rumours…’
Tittletattletime.
‘There’s a couple.’ Enjoying the telling, Andy drops his voice to a conspiracy level that requires us to lean in to hear. ‘One: that the landlord started it for some kind of insurance scam. I don’t go for that. The other is that some loan shark’s torched it as a warning.’
‘Warning for what?’
‘Didn’t you know the landlord is seriously in debt?’
We didn’t know.
‘Gambling. Wife’s left him, children won’t speak to him, some people want to do him damage.’
‘A life gone wrong!’ Toby sighs.
‘There’s a still darker rumour.’ Their faces turn to me in grim expectation. ‘A ritual burning of all their Harry and Meghan wedding memorabilia got out of control.’
Andy’s appreciation of my version firms Toby up, ‘You know, I sometimes wonder if you’ve had a total sympathy bypass.’
‘I prefer empathy Toby.'
'Empathy?'
'I prefer it so much that if I wasn’t strict with myself I’d be crying every day of the bloody week.’
‘What’s the difference between sympathy and empathy then?’
Toby gives me his cop that smartarse smirk. ‘Good question Andy!’
My overhead smartarse smash return cut away when I got panged. ‘Empathy means I think about being them, sympathy might cost money!’ I feel instantly trashy.
‘Well sympathise with the bar. Your round.’
We finish our pints. Trashywonderingly I ask ‘Same again?’
‘Something a bit stronger?’ Andy suggests and Toby nods.
‘A Dad’s Army one!’ Toby Tobies over his shoulder.
I settle the beers on our table.
‘What’s this one called then?’
‘Their strongest.’
’Is it a Dad’s Army beer?!’
I hesitate dully.
Toby spreads his hands, ‘It’s what I asked for! We need to think local, support local businesses. It’s not Rocket Science!…’ he screws an index finger into a temple, ‘…Beer. Equals. Dad’s Army!’
‘And he’s a fan!’ Andy teases.
I fauxfeign recall, ’It's Stupid Boy Ale.’ Andy’s appreciation of my improv firms Toby up. Again.
‘Of course! What can you expect from the man who thinks The Rat and Sofa would be a good name for a pub!'
‘Rat&Sofa.’ I feel compelled to correct.
‘Those tattoo beardy brewery guys probably love that!’ Toby shakes his head - he has them pegged as tragically hip. ‘Those Beeristas! With respect….’
‘i.e. without it!’
Toby dismisses Andy with his eyelids, turns to me. ‘With respect! My suggestion - and I know you don’t rate tradition, but I do…’
I take mild offence. ‘I don’t don’t rate tradition! I didn’t…’
Toby dismisses me with his eyelids. ‘You’re talking crap. My idea was in the spirit of a traditional English pub.’ We think he’s finished and both go to speak when he jumps back in. ‘Time-worn but in a historical way…that connects you with generations of meeting and drinking…’
Andy shrugs ‘Blokes having a beer…?’
‘Gentlemen having a beer! Conviviality! Civility!’
‘Where are we now?’ Andy asks, ‘Public, Lounge, Saloon?’
‘You are in my pub. And my pub is…’
That’s it! I need that resolution! ’Okay so what was your suggestion then? You keep taking the piss out of my Rat&Sofa. Your pub is called...?’
As Toby’s lips lapse into a step back in wonder smirk, Andy suddenly cranks up a ‘West Country Accent’ so far west it’s thrashing about in the Atlantic, ‘Ye Olde White Farte.’
I’m sure Toby felt a bit offended - I felt a bit offended for him. I can’t tell if that’s sympathy or empathy because Toby and me are in hysterics over the most terrible shite bit of Mumbleshire conceivably utterable. Andy is laughing too, which makes us notch it up because we can tell he thinks we’re laughing at his joke. Toby points at Andy’s glass, ‘It is Stupid Boy Ale!’
I still don’t know what Toby’s suggestion was.
75. The Stars Align
I’ve fallen fey lately. Wintered by a run of icy intuitions for the year ahead that there’s going to be some falling off the end of the conveyor belt involving family elders. ‘When they’re gone we’re them’ I’m thinking as I go into the duskgathering garden with a whisky and a joint. Storms are passing west and northwards but a bit of their wake roughness is trailing the east. Despite the gloom I’m enjoying the treeroaring wind and roiling clouds when my phone vibrating makes me start. I don’t get many calls.
Well,well.
…oOo…
Well,well,well.
I go inside to find Georgie. ‘I was standing in the garden…’
‘I know, with your arms out, like some old tree-hugger whose tree’s been nicked…’
‘I was letting the wind have me.’
Georgie passes on that because she’s in neighbourhood watchit! mode ‘…whiskey in one hand and a joint in the other!’
‘Can I get you one?’ She’ll have a double No. ‘Just had a call from one of the guys at The Ludlite Brewery…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Those Beeristas! as Toby called them. Sad to hear about The Dun Cow. It wasn’t right for them after all. But they’re setting up in the old furniture store in the high street - that’s been empty for eighteen months? Naturally, as the winning entrant I’m invited to the opening. And guests of course. This side of Easter. Early days. Like it was meant to be - taking on an old furniture store with a rat problem.’
‘And?’
‘The Rat&Sofa! - in the High Street!
The tone of Georgie’s ‘Oh. Good.’ made me realise I’d maybe taken this personal news just a bit too gleefully and order myself not to even think of teasing Toby about it. Back outside in the wind-rocked blackness, with my next whisky and joint, I reappraise the extent of an opportunity tailor made for my fondest character flaws; which leads me to wonder whether it’s something I did (or didn’t) that seems to have hacked Georgie off. I’ve fallen Fey lately.
On my next visit to the Blue Bell, I see Andy and Toby before they see me. They’re animated and urgent, a couple spinning gossip into yarns. From the sudden still smiles they turn on me I intuit my teasing opportunity is blown and so it proves as Toby steps into my line to the bar, ‘I’ll get this…Rat&Sofa!.’ he laughs. I feel daft. Of course, he’s plugged in.
As I sit Andy says, ‘Watch Toby.’ I crick my neck to cornereye him at the bar. He let’s someone be served before him so he can have the lady with the nice twinset and well-supported pearls serve him. She flashes him a smile. Toby orders three pints with flirt chasers.
’She paid him a compliment earlier.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Flipped his switch.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Just something about a smart-dressed man…’
’And he thinks she’s going crazy for…’
’…and he’s gone all rampant with the schmooze.’
I realised how small it was to tease Toby over the Rat&Sofa. Not only did it make me feel small, it made me feel silly. Toby serves himself up with regularity for someone like me. Just as I do for someone like him. We enjoy tracing the drawn lines between us. He tears himself away from the landlady and brings three pints of Frazier’s Fine to the table. This, is their strongest Dad’s Army beer, though Toby calls Andy’s ’Stupid Boy Ale’ and asks if we want any nibbles? Nibbles? That’s so un-Toby.
‘Nibbles?’
‘I’m feeling a bit peckish.’
Andy and me fail to not exchange a look. ‘Peanuts…not dry roast.’
Because I think Toby might like me to, I ask for ‘Chorizo and something crisps. Or nothing. You’re on the slippery slope to the Rat&Sofa!’ He turns, waves to the Landlady, speeds to the bar with turbocharm kickdown giving me two fingers behind his back.
He returns, beaming, beneficent, with scratchings for Andy, nothing for me and a wedge of crusto-jellied pork pie with a pickled onion so big I disliken it to an accusing sheep’s eyeball. Despite Andy shooting the onion onto the floor with the blunt knife and Toby redchoking on some pie, he insisted on letting the landlady know how good it was when we leave. We wait outside for him to join us so we can leave each other. When Toby emerges Andy says the the thing I told him earlier, ‘You know those Dad’s Army beers are brewed up at the Ludlite Brewery - by those hipsters?’
Toby briefly slows the putting on of his coat ‘Well, well. Who’d’ve thought?’
‘Good stuff?’
‘Yes but it’s the whole experience, not just the beer!’
‘But they’ve got you buying their beer.’
I wag a naughty naughty finger at Toby, ’I think TwinSet’s got him buying their beer.’
Home again, I’m in the garden with my whisky. The perfect companion to gaze at the sky with. The dark is brittle with hard bright stars, St James’ uplit spire silhouettes a neighbour’s Cedar of Lebanon. Beyond them both, townscape lights play in silence. It’s one of those moments, so I float on it. Then I toast Orion, look for planets, crick my neck at Cassiopeia, take a drop and return indoors to the light of candles and a salt lamp. I feel mellow. I feel fey falling away. ‘Can I get you one, Georgie?’
‘Mmm-mm.’
Well,well.
…oOo…
Well,well,well.
I go inside to find Georgie. ‘I was standing in the garden…’
‘I know, with your arms out, like some old tree-hugger whose tree’s been nicked…’
‘I was letting the wind have me.’
Georgie passes on that because she’s in neighbourhood watchit! mode ‘…whiskey in one hand and a joint in the other!’
‘Can I get you one?’ She’ll have a double No. ‘Just had a call from one of the guys at The Ludlite Brewery…’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Those Beeristas! as Toby called them. Sad to hear about The Dun Cow. It wasn’t right for them after all. But they’re setting up in the old furniture store in the high street - that’s been empty for eighteen months? Naturally, as the winning entrant I’m invited to the opening. And guests of course. This side of Easter. Early days. Like it was meant to be - taking on an old furniture store with a rat problem.’
‘And?’
‘The Rat&Sofa! - in the High Street!
The tone of Georgie’s ‘Oh. Good.’ made me realise I’d maybe taken this personal news just a bit too gleefully and order myself not to even think of teasing Toby about it. Back outside in the wind-rocked blackness, with my next whisky and joint, I reappraise the extent of an opportunity tailor made for my fondest character flaws; which leads me to wonder whether it’s something I did (or didn’t) that seems to have hacked Georgie off. I’ve fallen Fey lately.
On my next visit to the Blue Bell, I see Andy and Toby before they see me. They’re animated and urgent, a couple spinning gossip into yarns. From the sudden still smiles they turn on me I intuit my teasing opportunity is blown and so it proves as Toby steps into my line to the bar, ‘I’ll get this…Rat&Sofa!.’ he laughs. I feel daft. Of course, he’s plugged in.
As I sit Andy says, ‘Watch Toby.’ I crick my neck to cornereye him at the bar. He let’s someone be served before him so he can have the lady with the nice twinset and well-supported pearls serve him. She flashes him a smile. Toby orders three pints with flirt chasers.
’She paid him a compliment earlier.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Flipped his switch.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Just something about a smart-dressed man…’
’And he thinks she’s going crazy for…’
’…and he’s gone all rampant with the schmooze.’
I realised how small it was to tease Toby over the Rat&Sofa. Not only did it make me feel small, it made me feel silly. Toby serves himself up with regularity for someone like me. Just as I do for someone like him. We enjoy tracing the drawn lines between us. He tears himself away from the landlady and brings three pints of Frazier’s Fine to the table. This, is their strongest Dad’s Army beer, though Toby calls Andy’s ’Stupid Boy Ale’ and asks if we want any nibbles? Nibbles? That’s so un-Toby.
‘Nibbles?’
‘I’m feeling a bit peckish.’
Andy and me fail to not exchange a look. ‘Peanuts…not dry roast.’
Because I think Toby might like me to, I ask for ‘Chorizo and something crisps. Or nothing. You’re on the slippery slope to the Rat&Sofa!’ He turns, waves to the Landlady, speeds to the bar with turbocharm kickdown giving me two fingers behind his back.
He returns, beaming, beneficent, with scratchings for Andy, nothing for me and a wedge of crusto-jellied pork pie with a pickled onion so big I disliken it to an accusing sheep’s eyeball. Despite Andy shooting the onion onto the floor with the blunt knife and Toby redchoking on some pie, he insisted on letting the landlady know how good it was when we leave. We wait outside for him to join us so we can leave each other. When Toby emerges Andy says the the thing I told him earlier, ‘You know those Dad’s Army beers are brewed up at the Ludlite Brewery - by those hipsters?’
Toby briefly slows the putting on of his coat ‘Well, well. Who’d’ve thought?’
‘Good stuff?’
‘Yes but it’s the whole experience, not just the beer!’
‘But they’ve got you buying their beer.’
I wag a naughty naughty finger at Toby, ’I think TwinSet’s got him buying their beer.’
Home again, I’m in the garden with my whisky. The perfect companion to gaze at the sky with. The dark is brittle with hard bright stars, St James’ uplit spire silhouettes a neighbour’s Cedar of Lebanon. Beyond them both, townscape lights play in silence. It’s one of those moments, so I float on it. Then I toast Orion, look for planets, crick my neck at Cassiopeia, take a drop and return indoors to the light of candles and a salt lamp. I feel mellow. I feel fey falling away. ‘Can I get you one, Georgie?’
‘Mmm-mm.’
76. It's only money
At the bar, Toby is pointing at something in the palm of his hand, showing it to the landlady, talking engagingly, but she shakes her head, somewhat forces a smile, shrugs, demurs. Toby shrugs and laughs something back. As he turns from the bar with our beers, he cheers his expression a little too late to conceal disappointment. This latest vignette might prove to be the last in Toby’s enchantment with the Blue Bell Inn’s landlady. As pleasant as she undoubtedly is, Andy and me would be grateful not to hear Toby going on about Morwen, and him being all moony over ‘the song in her voice’. I tap Andy’s foot with mine, ‘I think Toby’s just had a knock back.’
‘Good! It’s getting embarrassing being in here with him trying it on.’
Toby pretends he didn’t hear that as he hands us our pints, looks at me and asks ‘Do you know what Morwen said to me just then?’
‘Who’s your mate?’
Toby loads his pshaw! with buckshot derision to make sure I get a blast of how far off the pace and out of the game I would be when he is in play. ‘She does have something in common with you though - she’s a remainer,’ he lets out a chuckle he’s been saving, ‘or should I say was a remainer.’
‘Give it a rest Toby!’ Andy protests.
‘What? We’re out! It’s a fact.’
’Morwen wasn’t impressed by your fifty-pence piece though, was she?’
‘What fifty-pence piece?’
‘The one you were showing her at the bar.’
Andy has surprised him with his shrewd guess. ‘What of it? Anyway, what can you have against a bit of peace, prosperity and friendship with all nations?’
Andy holds out his hand, ‘Nothing. I’ll have half a pound’s worth.’
Toby smiles, gets an envelope from his jacket pocket and looking straight at Andy says ‘For you!’ as he passes it to me. It’s light. When I open it there’s a bit of folded card with a pencil rubbing of the new coin on it’s verso face. Inside, Toby has writ large ‘And Freedom!’
I show it to Andy who complains on my behalf, ‘Not even a real one!’
‘I’m not giving a real one to him! They’ll be worth a bit, collectors items!’
‘I know they’re only minting ten million of them, but I think you could have stretched to a real one for a mate.’
‘He probably wouldn’t even use it - or refuse it like some remoaners are saying they will.’
‘It’s only money Toby, you can give me as many of those as you like without worrying that I’ll refuse them.’
’I had you taped as someone who’d refuse to touch one.’
‘I have more of an issue with the Queen’s head all over our money than worthy but perversely timed sentiments.’
‘Is there anything about the United Kingdom you actually like?’
My pause to consider is as good as a no to Toby, but his withering look doesn’t work on me. ‘It’s not a United Kingdom though, is it? If it’s anything it’s a Divided Queendom.’
‘I suppose you’re in favour of an independent Scotland too.’
‘I’m in favour of Scotland having the right to choose given how they voted last time around - who wants to be shackled to a bloated, senile relative with a death wish?’
Toby makes agitated show of containing himself before frosting into still, eye-glaring hostility.
Andy slams his glass down, ‘If it’s not one of you, it’s the other with this shit! Why can’t you let it go?’
Even though I know it may hurt because he and Carol weren’t able to have children, I beat Toby to it because my blood is up. ‘I can’t let it go because not only have my kids been shafted but now their kids’ futures have been fucked over - by a bunch of public schoolboys who put themselves and their party before the interests of their nation…’ I stop Toby preparing to speak, ‘…and don’t fucking mention Farage to me Toby or I’ll either have to do apoplexy or thump you for his proxy!’
It goes quiet. All over the pub. Morwen appears by our table. ‘Gentlemen!’ she says with a mellifluous but firm brand of Welshness, ‘If you don’t tone it down, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
I stand up to take the blame and apologise for my language.
With Morwen gone and my blood cooled, I ask Toby ’Have you heard about the academics and learned types complaining about the missing Oxford comma in that fifty-pence piece?’
‘The what?’ Toby sneers.
‘The Oxford comma,’ I show him on the pencil rubbing, ‘should go there, after friendship.’
‘Who cares? Some of those academic types need a kick up the…Cambridge colon.’
Andy and me approve of Toby’s punctuation by laughing. January 31st having shortly passed and knowing Toby as I do, I had expected some digs from him and I’d come prepared. I felt childish making it but was now thankful I had. I lift Toby’s glass and place under it the beer mat made artwork with Steve Bell’s CACAS TAURI cartoon commemorative, scissored from a Saturday Guardian ad. ‘I’m relieved you didn’t go to any expense for me Toby, because that isn’t the real deal either - and I know you rate creative parsimony.’
Toby refreezes. Andy yells ‘Call for Mr Farage!’
Morwen isn’t smiling.
‘Good! It’s getting embarrassing being in here with him trying it on.’
Toby pretends he didn’t hear that as he hands us our pints, looks at me and asks ‘Do you know what Morwen said to me just then?’
‘Who’s your mate?’
Toby loads his pshaw! with buckshot derision to make sure I get a blast of how far off the pace and out of the game I would be when he is in play. ‘She does have something in common with you though - she’s a remainer,’ he lets out a chuckle he’s been saving, ‘or should I say was a remainer.’
‘Give it a rest Toby!’ Andy protests.
‘What? We’re out! It’s a fact.’
’Morwen wasn’t impressed by your fifty-pence piece though, was she?’
‘What fifty-pence piece?’
‘The one you were showing her at the bar.’
Andy has surprised him with his shrewd guess. ‘What of it? Anyway, what can you have against a bit of peace, prosperity and friendship with all nations?’
Andy holds out his hand, ‘Nothing. I’ll have half a pound’s worth.’
Toby smiles, gets an envelope from his jacket pocket and looking straight at Andy says ‘For you!’ as he passes it to me. It’s light. When I open it there’s a bit of folded card with a pencil rubbing of the new coin on it’s verso face. Inside, Toby has writ large ‘And Freedom!’
I show it to Andy who complains on my behalf, ‘Not even a real one!’
‘I’m not giving a real one to him! They’ll be worth a bit, collectors items!’
‘I know they’re only minting ten million of them, but I think you could have stretched to a real one for a mate.’
‘He probably wouldn’t even use it - or refuse it like some remoaners are saying they will.’
‘It’s only money Toby, you can give me as many of those as you like without worrying that I’ll refuse them.’
’I had you taped as someone who’d refuse to touch one.’
‘I have more of an issue with the Queen’s head all over our money than worthy but perversely timed sentiments.’
‘Is there anything about the United Kingdom you actually like?’
My pause to consider is as good as a no to Toby, but his withering look doesn’t work on me. ‘It’s not a United Kingdom though, is it? If it’s anything it’s a Divided Queendom.’
‘I suppose you’re in favour of an independent Scotland too.’
‘I’m in favour of Scotland having the right to choose given how they voted last time around - who wants to be shackled to a bloated, senile relative with a death wish?’
Toby makes agitated show of containing himself before frosting into still, eye-glaring hostility.
Andy slams his glass down, ‘If it’s not one of you, it’s the other with this shit! Why can’t you let it go?’
Even though I know it may hurt because he and Carol weren’t able to have children, I beat Toby to it because my blood is up. ‘I can’t let it go because not only have my kids been shafted but now their kids’ futures have been fucked over - by a bunch of public schoolboys who put themselves and their party before the interests of their nation…’ I stop Toby preparing to speak, ‘…and don’t fucking mention Farage to me Toby or I’ll either have to do apoplexy or thump you for his proxy!’
It goes quiet. All over the pub. Morwen appears by our table. ‘Gentlemen!’ she says with a mellifluous but firm brand of Welshness, ‘If you don’t tone it down, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
I stand up to take the blame and apologise for my language.
With Morwen gone and my blood cooled, I ask Toby ’Have you heard about the academics and learned types complaining about the missing Oxford comma in that fifty-pence piece?’
‘The what?’ Toby sneers.
‘The Oxford comma,’ I show him on the pencil rubbing, ‘should go there, after friendship.’
‘Who cares? Some of those academic types need a kick up the…Cambridge colon.’
Andy and me approve of Toby’s punctuation by laughing. January 31st having shortly passed and knowing Toby as I do, I had expected some digs from him and I’d come prepared. I felt childish making it but was now thankful I had. I lift Toby’s glass and place under it the beer mat made artwork with Steve Bell’s CACAS TAURI cartoon commemorative, scissored from a Saturday Guardian ad. ‘I’m relieved you didn’t go to any expense for me Toby, because that isn’t the real deal either - and I know you rate creative parsimony.’
Toby refreezes. Andy yells ‘Call for Mr Farage!’
Morwen isn’t smiling.
77. Lovestruck
Andy arrives. ‘I’ve been trying to call you Andy - where’ve you been?’
‘Incommunicado.’
‘Wheres that?’
‘Boom Tish! Mobile getting repaired. Pain in the arse being without it though Toby.’
I ask ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you can’t just…what if something happens?’
‘What did we do before mobile phones when something happened?’
‘What did we do before we had phones wired to the wall? You can go on like that back to cave days. It’s progress.’
‘He’s got a point, Andy.’
‘But I haven’t got a pint, Toby!’
Toby doesn’t walk as tall or swagger to the bar since his appreciation for Morwen took a hit, ‘How did she end up with someone like that!?’
‘Someone like that’ is the OK bloke Morwen is married to. True, he didn’t have Morwen’s style or charm but when Toby described him as ‘prop forwardesque’ we warned him to stop carrying somebody else’s torch or he’d get burned. So Toby trips to the bar and back in short order now. Handing Andy his pint he says, ‘I was thinking, with smartphones and all they can do, talking, texting, photos, the web and whatnot, it kind of makes it all a bit flimsy - fragile.’
‘All what?’ Andy wants to know.
‘All the stuff that only exists now on a circuit, or in a cloud or a drive, nothing you can, you know, handle, like letters, photos developed from film, vinyl, album covers - now it’s all...’ Toby wafts at the ceiling, ‘…in the ether.’
‘You can print all that stuff off - access it if you want.’
‘But what about when you peg out Andy? What if your family can’t access it, if you’ve taken all your passwords to the grave? Our generation’s had letters and photos and all that passed down to us - family history you can hold in your hands.’
‘How long do you like your ephemera to last?’ I wonder aloud. They look at me as if I’m about to answer my own question. Which I (kind of) do. ‘It’s funny you should say that about letters and stuff, Toby. We were having a declutter the other day and Georgie came to me with a shoe box of things she’s kept, including my love letters to her.’
‘Any good?’ Toby nudges Andy and they chuckle.
‘Bloody marvellous! All that ardour. All that longing. All that promise. The pouring out of poems, paeans. My writing looked different back then, less assured, but it was still styled - fountain pen, and most of it on fancy paper, thick, deckle edge I think it was called.’
’So go on, what sort of stuff did you write?’
‘I’m not telling you!’
‘Embarrassing was it!’ Their chuckles are back.
‘Not to us. Just of a time, personal and important. She had some photos in the box too. God! We looked so young. I suppose that’s the downside of keeping stuff, we started by enjoying looking through it…then sadness kind of settled on us. Where did that time go?’
It seems I’ve embarrassed them. They drink, eyes averted.
’Tempus fugit.’ Toby declares mock cheerfully to Andy.
‘He’s always been a sensitive soul, hasn’t he!’ Andy stage asides.
‘Anyway, whatever it does for you or to you, all that stuff in the box, your box, tipping it out, touching it, the feeling of shared time, how do you get that from a phone or the cloud?’
‘Well, I suppose you have to put it in first!’
‘Okay then!’ I say, ‘Get your phone out Toby.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re going to send a love text.’
‘A love text!?’
‘Yeah! Sounds naff to me but let’s give it a go. I’ll text Georgie you text Carole.’
‘She’ll think I’m drunk!’
‘Why? Is that when you tell her you love her?’
Andy rescues him, ‘Like you said, when you’re young, you say I love you all the time, when you’ve been together for so long, well you don’t say it like you used to.’
‘I do.’
‘Come on! I mean, like, so often it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It always means something when I say it.’
‘So, you’ve never said I love you and not meant it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work like that for me.’
‘Nor me.’ Toby adds.
‘So are you the type that finds yourself saying Of course I love you! because you have to be asked whether you do?’
Andy doesn’t know what to say. Toby gets defensive, ’What’s it matter anyway? Everyone has to do it their own way.’
‘Fair enough Toby. Got your phone? We’ll send at the same time. Promise you’ll do it properly.’
‘Yeah, yeah - promise.’
We start typing, ‘See what I mean!’ I exclaim, ‘Bloody predictive text - algorithm I love you! Give me pen and paper for this any day.’
‘Saves time!’
Andy is enjoying not having his phone, ‘Ready? Three-two-one-SEND!’
I’m about to get a round in when my phone dings.
‘From Georgie?’
When I’ve read it, I find I’ve got a bit choked up, my ‘Yes’ doesn’t come out, so I nod.
‘Well?’
‘One for the shoe box.’
‘In the sky?’
‘That one, yes.’
I hear them laughing as I’m getting the beers and when I return with them, they’re still going.
‘Look at this! Show him Toby!’ Toby shows me Carole’s text - R u drunk?
’Love letters!’
What can you do other than drink to that.
‘Incommunicado.’
‘Wheres that?’
‘Boom Tish! Mobile getting repaired. Pain in the arse being without it though Toby.’
I ask ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because you can’t just…what if something happens?’
‘What did we do before mobile phones when something happened?’
‘What did we do before we had phones wired to the wall? You can go on like that back to cave days. It’s progress.’
‘He’s got a point, Andy.’
‘But I haven’t got a pint, Toby!’
Toby doesn’t walk as tall or swagger to the bar since his appreciation for Morwen took a hit, ‘How did she end up with someone like that!?’
‘Someone like that’ is the OK bloke Morwen is married to. True, he didn’t have Morwen’s style or charm but when Toby described him as ‘prop forwardesque’ we warned him to stop carrying somebody else’s torch or he’d get burned. So Toby trips to the bar and back in short order now. Handing Andy his pint he says, ‘I was thinking, with smartphones and all they can do, talking, texting, photos, the web and whatnot, it kind of makes it all a bit flimsy - fragile.’
‘All what?’ Andy wants to know.
‘All the stuff that only exists now on a circuit, or in a cloud or a drive, nothing you can, you know, handle, like letters, photos developed from film, vinyl, album covers - now it’s all...’ Toby wafts at the ceiling, ‘…in the ether.’
‘You can print all that stuff off - access it if you want.’
‘But what about when you peg out Andy? What if your family can’t access it, if you’ve taken all your passwords to the grave? Our generation’s had letters and photos and all that passed down to us - family history you can hold in your hands.’
‘How long do you like your ephemera to last?’ I wonder aloud. They look at me as if I’m about to answer my own question. Which I (kind of) do. ‘It’s funny you should say that about letters and stuff, Toby. We were having a declutter the other day and Georgie came to me with a shoe box of things she’s kept, including my love letters to her.’
‘Any good?’ Toby nudges Andy and they chuckle.
‘Bloody marvellous! All that ardour. All that longing. All that promise. The pouring out of poems, paeans. My writing looked different back then, less assured, but it was still styled - fountain pen, and most of it on fancy paper, thick, deckle edge I think it was called.’
’So go on, what sort of stuff did you write?’
‘I’m not telling you!’
‘Embarrassing was it!’ Their chuckles are back.
‘Not to us. Just of a time, personal and important. She had some photos in the box too. God! We looked so young. I suppose that’s the downside of keeping stuff, we started by enjoying looking through it…then sadness kind of settled on us. Where did that time go?’
It seems I’ve embarrassed them. They drink, eyes averted.
’Tempus fugit.’ Toby declares mock cheerfully to Andy.
‘He’s always been a sensitive soul, hasn’t he!’ Andy stage asides.
‘Anyway, whatever it does for you or to you, all that stuff in the box, your box, tipping it out, touching it, the feeling of shared time, how do you get that from a phone or the cloud?’
‘Well, I suppose you have to put it in first!’
‘Okay then!’ I say, ‘Get your phone out Toby.’
‘What for?’
‘We’re going to send a love text.’
‘A love text!?’
‘Yeah! Sounds naff to me but let’s give it a go. I’ll text Georgie you text Carole.’
‘She’ll think I’m drunk!’
‘Why? Is that when you tell her you love her?’
Andy rescues him, ‘Like you said, when you’re young, you say I love you all the time, when you’ve been together for so long, well you don’t say it like you used to.’
‘I do.’
‘Come on! I mean, like, so often it doesn’t mean anything.’
‘It always means something when I say it.’
‘So, you’ve never said I love you and not meant it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, it doesn’t work like that for me.’
‘Nor me.’ Toby adds.
‘So are you the type that finds yourself saying Of course I love you! because you have to be asked whether you do?’
Andy doesn’t know what to say. Toby gets defensive, ’What’s it matter anyway? Everyone has to do it their own way.’
‘Fair enough Toby. Got your phone? We’ll send at the same time. Promise you’ll do it properly.’
‘Yeah, yeah - promise.’
We start typing, ‘See what I mean!’ I exclaim, ‘Bloody predictive text - algorithm I love you! Give me pen and paper for this any day.’
‘Saves time!’
Andy is enjoying not having his phone, ‘Ready? Three-two-one-SEND!’
I’m about to get a round in when my phone dings.
‘From Georgie?’
When I’ve read it, I find I’ve got a bit choked up, my ‘Yes’ doesn’t come out, so I nod.
‘Well?’
‘One for the shoe box.’
‘In the sky?’
‘That one, yes.’
I hear them laughing as I’m getting the beers and when I return with them, they’re still going.
‘Look at this! Show him Toby!’ Toby shows me Carole’s text - R u drunk?
’Love letters!’
What can you do other than drink to that.
78. Apologise
Georgie is right. I should apologise, properly. She was unimpressed by my sarcastic, splenetic rehearsal, ‘Not with that - psychopath fervour - not like bloody Otto!’
‘Otto?’
‘Kevin Klein. A Fish Called Wanda.’
‘Psychopath fervour?’
‘Anyway, what do you expect?’ she continues, ‘That Toby is going to stop thinking and acting like Toby because of the pandemic? If anything, he’s going to be more Toby and I can’t see how you can blame him for that.’
Georgie is right. Again.
I met Toby in town today. Didn’t recognise him In his mask and baseball cap but he saw me and called. We stopped to talk in voices needed for that distance apart. He says something I can’t make out. I raise my bandana over my mouth, bandit style, so I can reply something he can’t make out. He shrugs like he was the understandable one. I sign thumb and finger to side of head. He nods, his eyes smile, we wave, move on.
Not two minutes into our telephone conversation he proudly reveals how he’d ‘got ahead of the curve’ and laid in zombie apocalypse level stocks of all the very things that antimattered from supermarket shelves. I lose it and lay into him. Say bad things, horribly. The line goes quiet before Toby sounding as light as he can says, ‘You know the problem with people like you? Or should I say mugs like you…’ I hang up, walk round the house fire-working and swearing loudly, pointlessly. Georgie tells me to cool down but my flame is high fizzing and stealing all the oxygen. When I quieten, I realise it’s probably anger with my unrealistic level of expectation that’s eating me. I had hoped that circumstances would mean not so much that Toby would be more something he’s not, but less something he is.
‘I think I’ll send him a link to that nurse in tears because the shelves had been stripped when she went for some shopping for her family.’
‘That doesn’t seem like an apology.’
My sarcasm isn’t over. ‘So what am I supposed to be apologising for again?’
‘You need telling? For being so horrible, you should have heard yourself.’
‘Oh! So being horrible to a hoarder for hoarding is the worse thing? He should apologise! He should be ashamed!’
‘He was being true to himself.’
‘Well, I was being true to myself when I was being horrible to him for him being true to himself!’
‘Now you’re just being silly.’
‘It isn’t silly to find that behaviour reprehensible.’ I’m still angry enough to stumble over the word. Georgie dismisses me with a wave and turns away. I call after her, ‘That kind of behaviour is at the heart of so much that’s wrong in the world...’
Now Georgie loses her rag, spins round, ‘Grow up! The world is what it is and you can’t change that but you could at least try to treat your friends with acceptable, normal levels of civility and kindness!’
‘These aren’t normal times!’ I shout.
Georgie turns away again, emphatically. I pour myself a large whisky. I feel uncivil. I feel unkind. Does he expect me to be more like him? Maybe he’s as disappointed in me as I am in him. Toby is convinced his way is the way because he has no doubts his way is the right way and my way is loser way, weak to the wall way. Quotidian Darwinism is Toby’s way. So I guess to him I’m set up nicely as a victim or prey or a die-er. A mug. But what am I willing to let, allow or ignore for the sake of friendship? This pulls me up. Do I actually still like him? I mean, fundamentally, like him? ‘These aren’t normal times!’ I hear myself shouting.
I pour another drink, call Toby on the house phone so maybe Carole can answer and give Toby a chance to refuse to speak to me. I want that to be an option. But I can tell it’s Toby who answers because despite not saying a word, I can hear his breathing.
‘I’ve got a drink in my hand Toby and I’ve rung to apologise and to say cheers.’
Silence.
’Toby?’
‘Hold the line.’
I hear the phone clunk down on wood. Footsteps fade. Domestic sounds, off. The footsteps return. A tinkle of ice in a glass against the mouthpiece. ‘Cheers you twat!’
‘Cheers Toby.’ I explain that I’m apologising for saying bad things, horribly. The tension leaches out of our conversation to the point I hope things are ‘normal’.
Then, ‘Don’t bite my head off.’ Toby says, ‘But like I was going to say before you hung up, if you need any toilet roll…’
‘Toilet roll? I don’t get this whole toilet roll thing.’
‘Well, you don’t want to be running out do you?’
‘Back in the day, when I visited my Nan it was squares of newspaper hung by a string.’
‘Yeah? Well if it comes to that…but good luck wiping your arse on the e-version of the Guardian.’
‘And good luck to you with the newspaper you read, it’s already full of shit.’
We share a we’ll always be different laugh, a good note to finish on, ‘I’m glad I apologised Toby, it was due. But I have to go now.’ I get myself another whisky and one for Georgie. Time for another apology.
‘Otto?’
‘Kevin Klein. A Fish Called Wanda.’
‘Psychopath fervour?’
‘Anyway, what do you expect?’ she continues, ‘That Toby is going to stop thinking and acting like Toby because of the pandemic? If anything, he’s going to be more Toby and I can’t see how you can blame him for that.’
Georgie is right. Again.
I met Toby in town today. Didn’t recognise him In his mask and baseball cap but he saw me and called. We stopped to talk in voices needed for that distance apart. He says something I can’t make out. I raise my bandana over my mouth, bandit style, so I can reply something he can’t make out. He shrugs like he was the understandable one. I sign thumb and finger to side of head. He nods, his eyes smile, we wave, move on.
Not two minutes into our telephone conversation he proudly reveals how he’d ‘got ahead of the curve’ and laid in zombie apocalypse level stocks of all the very things that antimattered from supermarket shelves. I lose it and lay into him. Say bad things, horribly. The line goes quiet before Toby sounding as light as he can says, ‘You know the problem with people like you? Or should I say mugs like you…’ I hang up, walk round the house fire-working and swearing loudly, pointlessly. Georgie tells me to cool down but my flame is high fizzing and stealing all the oxygen. When I quieten, I realise it’s probably anger with my unrealistic level of expectation that’s eating me. I had hoped that circumstances would mean not so much that Toby would be more something he’s not, but less something he is.
‘I think I’ll send him a link to that nurse in tears because the shelves had been stripped when she went for some shopping for her family.’
‘That doesn’t seem like an apology.’
My sarcasm isn’t over. ‘So what am I supposed to be apologising for again?’
‘You need telling? For being so horrible, you should have heard yourself.’
‘Oh! So being horrible to a hoarder for hoarding is the worse thing? He should apologise! He should be ashamed!’
‘He was being true to himself.’
‘Well, I was being true to myself when I was being horrible to him for him being true to himself!’
‘Now you’re just being silly.’
‘It isn’t silly to find that behaviour reprehensible.’ I’m still angry enough to stumble over the word. Georgie dismisses me with a wave and turns away. I call after her, ‘That kind of behaviour is at the heart of so much that’s wrong in the world...’
Now Georgie loses her rag, spins round, ‘Grow up! The world is what it is and you can’t change that but you could at least try to treat your friends with acceptable, normal levels of civility and kindness!’
‘These aren’t normal times!’ I shout.
Georgie turns away again, emphatically. I pour myself a large whisky. I feel uncivil. I feel unkind. Does he expect me to be more like him? Maybe he’s as disappointed in me as I am in him. Toby is convinced his way is the way because he has no doubts his way is the right way and my way is loser way, weak to the wall way. Quotidian Darwinism is Toby’s way. So I guess to him I’m set up nicely as a victim or prey or a die-er. A mug. But what am I willing to let, allow or ignore for the sake of friendship? This pulls me up. Do I actually still like him? I mean, fundamentally, like him? ‘These aren’t normal times!’ I hear myself shouting.
I pour another drink, call Toby on the house phone so maybe Carole can answer and give Toby a chance to refuse to speak to me. I want that to be an option. But I can tell it’s Toby who answers because despite not saying a word, I can hear his breathing.
‘I’ve got a drink in my hand Toby and I’ve rung to apologise and to say cheers.’
Silence.
’Toby?’
‘Hold the line.’
I hear the phone clunk down on wood. Footsteps fade. Domestic sounds, off. The footsteps return. A tinkle of ice in a glass against the mouthpiece. ‘Cheers you twat!’
‘Cheers Toby.’ I explain that I’m apologising for saying bad things, horribly. The tension leaches out of our conversation to the point I hope things are ‘normal’.
Then, ‘Don’t bite my head off.’ Toby says, ‘But like I was going to say before you hung up, if you need any toilet roll…’
‘Toilet roll? I don’t get this whole toilet roll thing.’
‘Well, you don’t want to be running out do you?’
‘Back in the day, when I visited my Nan it was squares of newspaper hung by a string.’
‘Yeah? Well if it comes to that…but good luck wiping your arse on the e-version of the Guardian.’
‘And good luck to you with the newspaper you read, it’s already full of shit.’
We share a we’ll always be different laugh, a good note to finish on, ‘I’m glad I apologised Toby, it was due. But I have to go now.’ I get myself another whisky and one for Georgie. Time for another apology.
79. Conjuring the Spirit
I return from the less tended end of the garden.
‘What have you been doing?’
When I tell him I’ve been for a smoke and a piss on his compost heap, Toby’s citrus pucker sets us all laughing, ‘What about our neighbours?’
‘I’m sure they’ll piss on it if you ask them.’
‘Neighbours!’ Georgie says, ‘Be thankful he went straight to the compost heap Toby!’ and goes on to tell how in our last house, I went to the lean-to off our kitchen to fill an old teapot that I kept on a shelf before pouring it on the compost heap; and the time standing in the lean-to, todger in the teapot whilst appreciating the view of our garden through the window, I caught sight of our neighbours in their garden and waved a beaming hello to them with my free hand.
‘I’m never drinking tea at your place again!’
I’m accustomed to Georgie’s twinkling accounts of my practicalities and we have a tacit understanding it’s her pleasure to try tweaking embarrassment from me and mine to be 80 proof. But Carole and Olga are chiming with Georgie’s fun.
We are more than several bring your own drinks and nibbles into our three-metre meet in Toby and Carole’s garden. It feels strangely same but different all being together again. We are, each couple, sat at the points of an equilateral triangle, taped and pegged out on their lawn. In the middle is a basket of crackling logs, flames lost in the sunlight. When Andy saw the arrangement he laughingly hoped ‘This isn’t another attempt to get us into Freemasonry’ but once in our places we looked more like a tableau from a Dennis Wheatley novel. As a fan of asymmetry I found the layout something I kept wanting to rearrange and the conversation moved round the points in a confusing way, never getting anywhere, like an Escher triangle.
Toby broke a hiatus with ‘That book you loaned me, Meme Wars?’ ‘Did you enjoy it?’ ‘Well how can I put this? I’m finding it difficult to take to the ideas.’ Carole’s turn to pin Toby, ‘You said it was a load of crap!’ ‘W-e-l-l that’s true - but anyway, I thought I’d return the favour.’ ‘Thanks Toby.’ ‘Though it’s not as heavy as yours’ Toby scoffs, ‘just a slim volume!’ ‘The Boris Book of Knowledge?’ ‘Come on Andy! Boris is a well-educated man!’ ‘Expensively educated, for sure, but look what he’s done with his education, he thinks he’s bloody Churchill!’ ‘What’s wrong with that? He could do a lot worse thinking he’s somebody else.’ It’s got uncomfortable biting my lip, ’Or a lot better.’ Toby contemplates his riffle through the slim volume, then fixes me with his challenge stare, ‘Like who?’ ‘I dunno off the cuff but I don’t think all the faux patriotism blitz spirit stuff to get through is helpful.’ ‘Faux! Trust you to come out with a foreign word - the blitz spirit is exactly what’s going to get us through this!’ ‘The blitz spirit was one of rising levels of crime - until the government got heavy - locked down, if you will.’ ‘You just like to trash national institutions…’ ’No I don’t…’ ‘…and character.’ ‘No I don’t, I just don’t swallow all I’m fed without question - take the Nightingale Hospitals…’ Toby throws the slim volume on the lawn and raises his arms in a gesture of exasperation, ’So you’re going to have a go at Florence Nightingale now!’ I sense the spike of mood. This isn’t The Dun Cow or The Blue Bell and the recast intimacy of our triangle on a domestic lawn isn’t as robust. And worse, I’ve caught myself being socially graceless in a way that pissing on the compost heap wasn’t, ‘No Toby. I just can’t help myself sometimes, but this isn’t the time or place. I apologise.’ ‘OK.’ ‘Have you heard of Mary Seacole?’ ‘Who?’ Georgie puts her hand on my thigh and gives it a disaffectionate squeeze, ‘Is this how you three go on when you’re at the pub?’ Maybe Carole and Olga picked up some subtle signal from Georgie, maybe they harmonised in some soundless art of resonance that has baffled me before, but it suddenly felt that Toby, Andy and me became the subject of effortlessly adult scrutiny. ‘We can’t help it!’ Andy exclaims, ‘it’s in our blood!’ Olga turns to him, ‘Can’t help it? Aren’t you getting on a bit to be blaming testosterone?’ In the spirit of camaraderie I say ‘We are like it at the pub, I think we need a safe place to be awkward.’ Georgie smiles radiantly and pats my nail-dug thigh, ‘You’re awkward all the time, darling!’ I take it on the chin with grace, to the sound of triangular laughter.
We are more than several bring your own drinks and nibbles into our three-metre meet in Toby and Carole’s garden. It feels strangely same but different all being together again. We are, each couple, sat at the points of an equilateral triangle, taped and pegged out on their lawn. In the middle is a basket of crackling logs, flames lost in the sunlight. When Andy saw the arrangement he laughingly hoped ‘This isn’t another attempt to get us into Freemasonry’ but once in our places we looked more like a tableau from a Dennis Wheatley novel. As a fan of asymmetry I found the layout something I kept wanting to rearrange and the conversation moved round the points in a confusing way, never getting anywhere, like an Escher triangle.
Toby broke a hiatus with ‘That book you loaned me, Meme Wars?’ ‘Did you enjoy it?’ ‘Well how can I put this? I’m finding it difficult to take to the ideas.’ Carole’s turn to pin Toby, ‘You said it was a load of crap!’ ‘W-e-l-l that’s true - but anyway, I thought I’d return the favour.’ ‘Thanks Toby.’ ‘Though it’s not as heavy as yours’ Toby scoffs, ‘just a slim volume!’ ‘The Boris Book of Knowledge?’ ‘Come on Andy! Boris is a well-educated man!’ ‘Expensively educated, for sure, but look what he’s done with his education, he thinks he’s bloody Churchill!’ ‘What’s wrong with that? He could do a lot worse thinking he’s somebody else.’ It’s got uncomfortable biting my lip, ’Or a lot better.’ Toby contemplates his riffle through the slim volume, then fixes me with his challenge stare, ‘Like who?’ ‘I dunno off the cuff but I don’t think all the faux patriotism blitz spirit stuff to get through is helpful.’ ‘Faux! Trust you to come out with a foreign word - the blitz spirit is exactly what’s going to get us through this!’ ‘The blitz spirit was one of rising levels of crime - until the government got heavy - locked down, if you will.’ ‘You just like to trash national institutions…’ ’No I don’t…’ ‘…and character.’ ‘No I don’t, I just don’t swallow all I’m fed without question - take the Nightingale Hospitals…’ Toby throws the slim volume on the lawn and raises his arms in a gesture of exasperation, ’So you’re going to have a go at Florence Nightingale now!’ I sense the spike of mood. This isn’t The Dun Cow or The Blue Bell and the recast intimacy of our triangle on a domestic lawn isn’t as robust. And worse, I’ve caught myself being socially graceless in a way that pissing on the compost heap wasn’t, ‘No Toby. I just can’t help myself sometimes, but this isn’t the time or place. I apologise.’ ‘OK.’ ‘Have you heard of Mary Seacole?’ ‘Who?’ Georgie puts her hand on my thigh and gives it a disaffectionate squeeze, ‘Is this how you three go on when you’re at the pub?’ Maybe Carole and Olga picked up some subtle signal from Georgie, maybe they harmonised in some soundless art of resonance that has baffled me before, but it suddenly felt that Toby, Andy and me became the subject of effortlessly adult scrutiny. ‘We can’t help it!’ Andy exclaims, ‘it’s in our blood!’ Olga turns to him, ‘Can’t help it? Aren’t you getting on a bit to be blaming testosterone?’ In the spirit of camaraderie I say ‘We are like it at the pub, I think we need a safe place to be awkward.’ Georgie smiles radiantly and pats my nail-dug thigh, ‘You’re awkward all the time, darling!’ I take it on the chin with grace, to the sound of triangular laughter.
80. Cirrus
Me not answering my mobile irritates Georgie, ‘Toby’s ringing you! You’ve got three missed calls from him!’
‘It’ll be about Andy…’
’So aren’t you going to talk to him?’
’When I’m ready…in a mo.’
I leave my sun-baked seat in the garden for the kitchen, look at my phone - four missed calls now - make myself another Moscow Mule and stand at the kitchen worktop thoughtfully rolling a joint. I make them both larger and stronger than usual. Outside again I look up and see cirrus tailing in from the north, a sign of change, and settle to re-read the email. Again.
Hello, I would have preferred to tell you over a pint rather than email but - strange times. And they’ve had Olga and me reflecting on our life together, talking about things like how much future we’ve got left and what we want to do with it if we can. I suppose a lot of people have been doing the same kind of thing. Anyway, the upshot of all our talking and what iffing is that we’ve decided that as soon as possible when this horror show is over and if we can do it, we’ll be taking up the invitation to stay with number two son and his husband in Australia, a kind of exploratory visit with a view to staying over there to see out our days if we like it. The way things are I guess it’ll be a while yet so I reckon we’ll have time for a few sessions but I thought I’d let you know now.
All the best
Andy & Olga
Six missed calls. I call Toby back. ‘Don’t you ever answer your phone? You read Andy’s email?’ ‘I have.’ ‘That’s a turn up. Do you reckon he’ll get over it?’ ‘Over what?’ ‘Wanting to live in Australia!’ ‘You mean get over it like it’s an illness?’ ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of lockdown madness? You know, them going stir-crazy?’ ‘I took it at face value.’ ‘Well, it’s a turn up. Have you replied?’ ‘Not yet. You?’ ’Not yet. Perhaps he’s missing our chats.’ ‘Maybe he’s had his fill of them.’ ‘I blame that twat of a landlord at The Dun Cow!’ ‘For what?!’ ‘Losing the pub because of gambling debts. That was a nice little boozer. Andy hasn’t been the same since.’ Toby’s explanation should get me laughing but I’m not ready yet, ‘Okay, let’s blame him.’ ’So what are we going to do about Andy?’ ‘Do? We?’ ‘Yes! Us! We! Do!’ ‘How about we give him a good send off?’ ’That…would be nice. I suppose.’ ‘Anyway, he doesn’t know if he can, he hasn’t gone yet and when he does he may decide not to stay…’ Toby sounds cheered, ‘That’s all true!’ ‘…but I hope they can get to have what they want.’ ‘Me too - of course.’ The conversation stretches and drifts before we exchange ‘best wishes tos’ and I return to the garden. The sun has arced on, there’s more cirrus, an iridescent wisp, it’s cooler. I spend the best part of an hour composing a reply to Andy but I keep drifting into recollection and pondering how the Toby and me dynamic would be without Andy’s patient, insightful umpiring. Nothing seems fit and proper to say and my reply ends up being rather spare, ‘We’ll miss you when you go. Here’s hoping it all works out for you and Olga.’ But it can’t be replaced with the something better that occurs to me immediately I hit send.
Indoors again, I tell Georgie about Andy and Olga’s plans. ‘Oh! I’ll miss Olga.’ ‘I’ll miss them both. You know, I was out there trying to write an email to Andy and I was lost for words.’ Georgie got up swiftly, ‘I’m going to fetch my diary.’ ‘They haven’t got anywhere near knowing a date yet!’ ‘I know that! I want to mark the day you were lost for words.’ Georgie had suggested earlier that I’d had enough of the Moscow Mules and she was right. So whilst she’s upstairs, I decide I’ll go for whisky and pull the noisiest cork ever used to stop a bottle. ‘I’ll have one of those please.’ came down the stairs, and when I didn’t answer, ‘Did you hear me?’ ‘Yes. But I was lost for words.’ And I pretty much stayed that way the rest of the night.
Hello, I would have preferred to tell you over a pint rather than email but - strange times. And they’ve had Olga and me reflecting on our life together, talking about things like how much future we’ve got left and what we want to do with it if we can. I suppose a lot of people have been doing the same kind of thing. Anyway, the upshot of all our talking and what iffing is that we’ve decided that as soon as possible when this horror show is over and if we can do it, we’ll be taking up the invitation to stay with number two son and his husband in Australia, a kind of exploratory visit with a view to staying over there to see out our days if we like it. The way things are I guess it’ll be a while yet so I reckon we’ll have time for a few sessions but I thought I’d let you know now.
All the best
Andy & Olga
Six missed calls. I call Toby back. ‘Don’t you ever answer your phone? You read Andy’s email?’ ‘I have.’ ‘That’s a turn up. Do you reckon he’ll get over it?’ ‘Over what?’ ‘Wanting to live in Australia!’ ‘You mean get over it like it’s an illness?’ ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit of lockdown madness? You know, them going stir-crazy?’ ‘I took it at face value.’ ‘Well, it’s a turn up. Have you replied?’ ‘Not yet. You?’ ’Not yet. Perhaps he’s missing our chats.’ ‘Maybe he’s had his fill of them.’ ‘I blame that twat of a landlord at The Dun Cow!’ ‘For what?!’ ‘Losing the pub because of gambling debts. That was a nice little boozer. Andy hasn’t been the same since.’ Toby’s explanation should get me laughing but I’m not ready yet, ‘Okay, let’s blame him.’ ’So what are we going to do about Andy?’ ‘Do? We?’ ‘Yes! Us! We! Do!’ ‘How about we give him a good send off?’ ’That…would be nice. I suppose.’ ‘Anyway, he doesn’t know if he can, he hasn’t gone yet and when he does he may decide not to stay…’ Toby sounds cheered, ‘That’s all true!’ ‘…but I hope they can get to have what they want.’ ‘Me too - of course.’ The conversation stretches and drifts before we exchange ‘best wishes tos’ and I return to the garden. The sun has arced on, there’s more cirrus, an iridescent wisp, it’s cooler. I spend the best part of an hour composing a reply to Andy but I keep drifting into recollection and pondering how the Toby and me dynamic would be without Andy’s patient, insightful umpiring. Nothing seems fit and proper to say and my reply ends up being rather spare, ‘We’ll miss you when you go. Here’s hoping it all works out for you and Olga.’ But it can’t be replaced with the something better that occurs to me immediately I hit send.
Indoors again, I tell Georgie about Andy and Olga’s plans. ‘Oh! I’ll miss Olga.’ ‘I’ll miss them both. You know, I was out there trying to write an email to Andy and I was lost for words.’ Georgie got up swiftly, ‘I’m going to fetch my diary.’ ‘They haven’t got anywhere near knowing a date yet!’ ‘I know that! I want to mark the day you were lost for words.’ Georgie had suggested earlier that I’d had enough of the Moscow Mules and she was right. So whilst she’s upstairs, I decide I’ll go for whisky and pull the noisiest cork ever used to stop a bottle. ‘I’ll have one of those please.’ came down the stairs, and when I didn’t answer, ‘Did you hear me?’ ‘Yes. But I was lost for words.’ And I pretty much stayed that way the rest of the night.
81. Age Concern
The big wheel keeps on turning but it feels like it’s turning too quickly and I keep looking back where it’s been instead of where it might go. A claustrophobic implosion has left me feeling bone-deep older, achier, gonner, and with dark hours hammer heart explosions of knowing most of me is behind not ahead. Yet I worry about how our parents are, have been, become, go, went, gone, how we’re inexorably annexing the unbordered territory of their decline even whilst they still inhabit it. This autumnal soul shit has been hitting me hard, there’s nothing springing, and when I go out and see youth meeting, laughing, flirting, I find myself smiling, warming but aching with clashed-up love for future past. But God! I’m so weary of the wistful, elegiac and other poesy of the past it that keeps ambushing me from page and song. I’ll ring Toby.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello Toby. Fancy getting pissed?’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve run out of mature and balanced remedies for feeling down.’
‘Ah! Drinking’s not the answer, is it?’
‘Are you my Doctor now?’
‘Well, you have to think of your health.’
‘Why? What am I saving myself up for?
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Good eludes me. My biorhythms have bottomed out. It’s a bad time for Librans with a Scorpio ascendant. Arthritis is knacking me. The news despairs me. I need to feel love and joy, even if they’re liars and imposters. What can I say?’
‘D’you know what I think?’
‘No. I rang you because of how I’m feeling.’
‘I think I’ll get my Brandy.’
Time and talking flow and merge, thinking and feeling have a Mexican standoff. After some serious laughing and before we hang up, Toby dismisses my apology for burdening him out of the blue and I’m desoberly left with a hot left ear and a 43:27 last call digital phone record that tells nothing of conversation.
‘You seemed to be having quite a laugh. How’s Tiger?’
’Tiger?’
’Toby! He once told me he used to be called Tiger.’
I wonder why he had told Georgie this but not me, then get a hint as ‘What’s new pussycat?’ plays in my head.
’He’s more of a Tigger to me.’
‘What are you to him? I can’t imagine it being anything Milneish.’
’In one of his lyric moments he called me an undespottable Leopard. I like to think of change as something I am comfortable with. Now I’m not so sure. Am I deluding myself?’
Georgie doesn’t answer and asks ’So what did you two find so funny?’
’Toby was affronted by the catalogue inserted with his last mail order of Tattersall shirts, something about independent living. Full of things to make life easier.’
‘What’s so funny about that? Sounds like a good idea.’
‘Well he was reading some of them out, gizmos to cut pills in half, never miss a pill, end the stress of swallowing tablets, a long back scratcher, put your socks on without bending, a long handled thing to wrap toilet paper round and wipe your arse with, armchairs that tip you forward, baths with doors in, elasticated shoe laces so you don’t have to tie them. So I tell him now he knows what I was getting at when I asked him what am I saving myself up for?’
’Some of those things are probably a boon to a lot of people!’
‘They do free returns, but imagine winding up with a second-hand long-handled arse-wiper! Imagine getting stuckstranded on your lawn wearing a pair of those poxy strap-on aerate your lawn as you walk spikey shoes!’
‘How childish!’
‘Or falling over when you get out of your chair because you’ve forgotten you have both your feet in one massive furry boot!’
Georgie cracks and laughs. A little. ‘You can laugh now, but you might need that kind of stuff one day.’
‘That’s why I’m laughing now. It’s the only spell I know.’
’So if I told you I was planning to buy you a nice walking stick you keep going on about…to stop you limping and swearing all over the place…would that be funny?’
‘Horribly.’
Georgie leaves me with her best sobering voice, ‘Maybe you should take a look at yourself before you ridicule things.’
Maybe I should.
There’s whisky left.
I’ll ring Andy.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello Toby. Fancy getting pissed?’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve run out of mature and balanced remedies for feeling down.’
‘Ah! Drinking’s not the answer, is it?’
‘Are you my Doctor now?’
‘Well, you have to think of your health.’
‘Why? What am I saving myself up for?
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Good eludes me. My biorhythms have bottomed out. It’s a bad time for Librans with a Scorpio ascendant. Arthritis is knacking me. The news despairs me. I need to feel love and joy, even if they’re liars and imposters. What can I say?’
‘D’you know what I think?’
‘No. I rang you because of how I’m feeling.’
‘I think I’ll get my Brandy.’
Time and talking flow and merge, thinking and feeling have a Mexican standoff. After some serious laughing and before we hang up, Toby dismisses my apology for burdening him out of the blue and I’m desoberly left with a hot left ear and a 43:27 last call digital phone record that tells nothing of conversation.
‘You seemed to be having quite a laugh. How’s Tiger?’
’Tiger?’
’Toby! He once told me he used to be called Tiger.’
I wonder why he had told Georgie this but not me, then get a hint as ‘What’s new pussycat?’ plays in my head.
’He’s more of a Tigger to me.’
‘What are you to him? I can’t imagine it being anything Milneish.’
’In one of his lyric moments he called me an undespottable Leopard. I like to think of change as something I am comfortable with. Now I’m not so sure. Am I deluding myself?’
Georgie doesn’t answer and asks ’So what did you two find so funny?’
’Toby was affronted by the catalogue inserted with his last mail order of Tattersall shirts, something about independent living. Full of things to make life easier.’
‘What’s so funny about that? Sounds like a good idea.’
‘Well he was reading some of them out, gizmos to cut pills in half, never miss a pill, end the stress of swallowing tablets, a long back scratcher, put your socks on without bending, a long handled thing to wrap toilet paper round and wipe your arse with, armchairs that tip you forward, baths with doors in, elasticated shoe laces so you don’t have to tie them. So I tell him now he knows what I was getting at when I asked him what am I saving myself up for?’
’Some of those things are probably a boon to a lot of people!’
‘They do free returns, but imagine winding up with a second-hand long-handled arse-wiper! Imagine getting stuckstranded on your lawn wearing a pair of those poxy strap-on aerate your lawn as you walk spikey shoes!’
‘How childish!’
‘Or falling over when you get out of your chair because you’ve forgotten you have both your feet in one massive furry boot!’
Georgie cracks and laughs. A little. ‘You can laugh now, but you might need that kind of stuff one day.’
‘That’s why I’m laughing now. It’s the only spell I know.’
’So if I told you I was planning to buy you a nice walking stick you keep going on about…to stop you limping and swearing all over the place…would that be funny?’
‘Horribly.’
Georgie leaves me with her best sobering voice, ‘Maybe you should take a look at yourself before you ridicule things.’
Maybe I should.
There’s whisky left.
I’ll ring Andy.
82. Al fresco
Carole is tired of listening to Toby banging on about their new neighbour, Georgie similarly wearied by me grumbling about my comedy kneecap's independent life as a break dancer. So they’ve gone to see Olga and left us to it in the garden where we’re picnicking, mostly liquidly. The hot, sunny weather has dropped al fresco mania on the neighbourhood and there’s already the chemical drift of firelighter. A boombox somewhere suddenly distorts on max before being settled to a steady whump.
‘I mean, that’s just provocation isn’t it!?’
I nod, handing Toby back his phone. He’s worked up and I do well not to laugh until I get to the kitchen for more beers. When I return with them, I see Andy hasn’t done as well.
Toby took a night-time video in his garden. Poking up the other side of his fence and a couple of feet higher, is one of those wooden birdtables that has a kind of house roof over it with open sides. Under the roof is a ‘garden ornament’, a mooning gnome pointed at Toby. Around the gnome is a halo of flashing fairy lights, the slow strobe making the gnome’s arse loom and wink at the same time. So well done! I want to share it but doubt Toby will oblige.
‘Have another cold one Toby.’
‘Cheers! And that’s just the half of it! He’s a curtain-twitcher. He saw me taking that video. Bastard!’
‘He sounds like something else to me, but so what?’ Andy asks.
‘I’ll tell you so what! Next morning he’s in his garden, stark bollock naked in the sunlight except for a cycle helmet with a video camera on it. Walking round all slow, standing with his hands on his hips bogging up at our bedroom window!’
‘Did you call Carole?’
Toby disdains me, ‘I did actually.’
‘Was she impressed?’
‘Didn’t see him. She was in such a rush to get an eyeful, she stubbed her toe on the bed leg. Gave me away with that scream of hers. Made me drop my binoculars.’
‘Were you impressed?’ I have to laughsk.
‘What do you think I needed the binoculars for?’ (we please Toby by drinking to that one) ‘Bell Close is a nice little neighbourhood, good quality people, or it was until Mr Nudey-Pervo-Gnomearse-Man moved in!’
He’s running hot so I hint at caution, ‘You have to be cool Toby. These things can get out of hand.’
Andy agrees with me, ‘He’s right. You could end up on one of those shit TV channels - “Warring Bell End Neighbours!” ‘
Toby withers Andy, ‘It’s not WAR, Andy! But I’m not letting him get away with that.’
I’m alarmed. ’So what are you going to do?’
Toby taps his nose and narrows his eyes in a manner meant to suggest wile, ‘I’ve been around. I know some things.’
‘For goodness’ sake Toby! What’s started this?’
‘Nothing! Absolutely nothing! The wind! A bloody zephyr! I got the barbecue going the other day - you know I like a barbecue - and there’s always a bit of smoke; smoke, fire - part of the deal…and Mr Nudey calls over the fence complaining about the smoke going in his garden, and how he’s a vegetarian and can’t stand the smell of meat! So I say, like, I’m supposed to control where the wind blows? Then he does all that gnome and nudist crap!’
‘Leave it!’ Andy says, ‘It’ll end up costing.’
‘Resources are not an issue.’
‘I have to say Toby, he sounds inspired to me, that can be a leveller.’
Toby withers, wileys and disdains me, ‘You think he’s inspired?! Why am I not surprised? I bet he’s a Guardian reader too. Let me tell you, you’ve seen nothing yet!’
’Two-Nil’ Andy mischiefs.’
‘How about we order a takeaway?’
***
It’s one of those evenings that smiles and invites you to sit in its lap. Warm. Cloudless. Stars beginning to show. Sunned-on pine scent oiling the air. A scant breeze rustling leaves. Perfectomundo! I hand Georgie her whiskey.
’Thanks. Honestly! You could have cleared up the bottles!’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow - we’ve arranged them neatly!’
‘How many…are there any left? - You just bought that case!’
‘Three blokes, case of beer…warm summer afternoon…it’s fate.’
‘You codgers better take it easy!’
’So we’re codgers now? We’re codgers but you get to be sisters?’
‘Codgers is good of us!’ she laughs, ‘Codgers is kind!’
‘I won’t forget that Georgie! Or maybe I will! So how was it, with the sisters?’
‘Yes, a nice afternoon. But Carole’s really got it in for Toby!’
‘Because of this neighbour thing?’
‘No. Well, yes too. First, she hurt her foot the other day, cry-out-loud pain, all Toby does is bellow “be quiet”…’
I recall Toby’s telling and take a lift to the Rashomon Penthouse, missing every story in between.
‘…but what’s got her really angry is Toby suddenly switching off the TV when they’re watching a film, and saying “We’re at war. Have we got any chicken?” Next morning he gets the barbecue out to piss off his neighbour, but then he puts it so close to the boundary that their fence catches fire.’
I get control after a brief, intense fight.
’Top-up sister?’
‘That would be nice you old codger. A little one.’
‘You’ll have two fingers same as everyone else!’
same as everyone else!’
‘I mean, that’s just provocation isn’t it!?’
I nod, handing Toby back his phone. He’s worked up and I do well not to laugh until I get to the kitchen for more beers. When I return with them, I see Andy hasn’t done as well.
Toby took a night-time video in his garden. Poking up the other side of his fence and a couple of feet higher, is one of those wooden birdtables that has a kind of house roof over it with open sides. Under the roof is a ‘garden ornament’, a mooning gnome pointed at Toby. Around the gnome is a halo of flashing fairy lights, the slow strobe making the gnome’s arse loom and wink at the same time. So well done! I want to share it but doubt Toby will oblige.
‘Have another cold one Toby.’
‘Cheers! And that’s just the half of it! He’s a curtain-twitcher. He saw me taking that video. Bastard!’
‘He sounds like something else to me, but so what?’ Andy asks.
‘I’ll tell you so what! Next morning he’s in his garden, stark bollock naked in the sunlight except for a cycle helmet with a video camera on it. Walking round all slow, standing with his hands on his hips bogging up at our bedroom window!’
‘Did you call Carole?’
Toby disdains me, ‘I did actually.’
‘Was she impressed?’
‘Didn’t see him. She was in such a rush to get an eyeful, she stubbed her toe on the bed leg. Gave me away with that scream of hers. Made me drop my binoculars.’
‘Were you impressed?’ I have to laughsk.
‘What do you think I needed the binoculars for?’ (we please Toby by drinking to that one) ‘Bell Close is a nice little neighbourhood, good quality people, or it was until Mr Nudey-Pervo-Gnomearse-Man moved in!’
He’s running hot so I hint at caution, ‘You have to be cool Toby. These things can get out of hand.’
Andy agrees with me, ‘He’s right. You could end up on one of those shit TV channels - “Warring Bell End Neighbours!” ‘
Toby withers Andy, ‘It’s not WAR, Andy! But I’m not letting him get away with that.’
I’m alarmed. ’So what are you going to do?’
Toby taps his nose and narrows his eyes in a manner meant to suggest wile, ‘I’ve been around. I know some things.’
‘For goodness’ sake Toby! What’s started this?’
‘Nothing! Absolutely nothing! The wind! A bloody zephyr! I got the barbecue going the other day - you know I like a barbecue - and there’s always a bit of smoke; smoke, fire - part of the deal…and Mr Nudey calls over the fence complaining about the smoke going in his garden, and how he’s a vegetarian and can’t stand the smell of meat! So I say, like, I’m supposed to control where the wind blows? Then he does all that gnome and nudist crap!’
‘Leave it!’ Andy says, ‘It’ll end up costing.’
‘Resources are not an issue.’
‘I have to say Toby, he sounds inspired to me, that can be a leveller.’
Toby withers, wileys and disdains me, ‘You think he’s inspired?! Why am I not surprised? I bet he’s a Guardian reader too. Let me tell you, you’ve seen nothing yet!’
’Two-Nil’ Andy mischiefs.’
‘How about we order a takeaway?’
***
It’s one of those evenings that smiles and invites you to sit in its lap. Warm. Cloudless. Stars beginning to show. Sunned-on pine scent oiling the air. A scant breeze rustling leaves. Perfectomundo! I hand Georgie her whiskey.
’Thanks. Honestly! You could have cleared up the bottles!’
‘I’ll do it tomorrow - we’ve arranged them neatly!’
‘How many…are there any left? - You just bought that case!’
‘Three blokes, case of beer…warm summer afternoon…it’s fate.’
‘You codgers better take it easy!’
’So we’re codgers now? We’re codgers but you get to be sisters?’
‘Codgers is good of us!’ she laughs, ‘Codgers is kind!’
‘I won’t forget that Georgie! Or maybe I will! So how was it, with the sisters?’
‘Yes, a nice afternoon. But Carole’s really got it in for Toby!’
‘Because of this neighbour thing?’
‘No. Well, yes too. First, she hurt her foot the other day, cry-out-loud pain, all Toby does is bellow “be quiet”…’
I recall Toby’s telling and take a lift to the Rashomon Penthouse, missing every story in between.
‘…but what’s got her really angry is Toby suddenly switching off the TV when they’re watching a film, and saying “We’re at war. Have we got any chicken?” Next morning he gets the barbecue out to piss off his neighbour, but then he puts it so close to the boundary that their fence catches fire.’
I get control after a brief, intense fight.
’Top-up sister?’
‘That would be nice you old codger. A little one.’
‘You’ll have two fingers same as everyone else!’
same as everyone else!’
83. Together
Toby has persuaded me we should get out ‘Like the old way, before the virus’, awareness and safeguards being better now, ‘we’ll be OK’. He and Andy wait socially distanced inside my front gate, pointing at my (admittedly sad) veg pots and sharing a socially close laugh-up. I over- confidently leave my walking stick indoors and join them. I have other feelings than aches in my bones that I shouldn’t have been persuaded.
‘We were just admiring your feed the family efforts!’ Toby chuckles.
‘What exactly is this one?’ Andy the green-fingered horticulturalist teases.
‘Pea.’
‘Not like any pea I’ve ever seen. What type is it - supposed to be?’
‘Pea type, what do you mean?’
‘I mean Maincrop? Sugarsnap? Mangetout?’ I’m irked by their obvious amusement at my obvious veg incompetence. ‘I think you may have created a new variety there!’
‘Yeah!’ Toby laughs ‘One with no peas!’
‘Don’t think you’ll get many buyers but you can name it!’
‘OK. I name it Mangefuckall. Can we go now?’
Iffy start.
Andy and Olga are still planning to live in Australia close to number two son and his husband. We plan to give them a soulful send off, with Georgie and Carol a part of it. But before that, we wanted a skinful one, time felt like it was running out and my invite to The Rat & Sofa’s opening seemed opportune. It wasn’t Toby’s preference but he got that in short order anyway.
The Rat & Sofa’s swanky opening do never came, C-19 torpedoed that and the owners now just wanted to get it going and give the till some work. So we’d agreed to start Andy’s evening there.
We weren’t there long. I told them to go ahead and get them in as my stiff-legged limpery was holding them back. When I got there, within five seconds of completing my track and tracery, I shinned into the ridiculously low table between two sofas, went over it like a felled tree and with as much noise. Glass breakage, beer spillage, a dopey scream from someone and virtuoso profanity from me. A much younger, hipper customer quipped ‘OK, Boomer?’ and I upped the ante, setting a daunting benchmark for any subsequent persona non grata - I got banned, without even having had a drink. Andy and Toby were invited to stay but declined with a gentler
touch of colour.
A happy Toby ’Can we come earlier?’ mobile call later and we’re on our way to The Blue Bell. Andy and Toby are impressively and alternately concerned and amused by my shin-barked bonus gait, walking as if already drunk. As we turn into its street, Toby upgrades his to an insouciant swagger that by the time we reach the door has become a confusion of unsynchronised limbs. As soon as we’re inside he looks for and clocks his favourite landlady, megawatting her a smile. Working the pump mobilises her décolletage and Toby’s eyes are still orbiting when she brings our pints to the table.
‘Here you are. How are you gentlemen?’
‘All the better for seeing you’ Toby instants radiantly ‘Do you still have those marvellous pork scratchings?’
Andy’s mouth falls open and my outright laugh gets me thrust back a yard by Toby’s glare.
‘Any nibbles for you two?’ she winsomes professionally.
‘Have you got any Wasabi Peas?’
Toby glares me back a bit further, ‘Ignore him, he knows nothing about peas and he’s gone a bit strange this evening.’
‘You prat!’ Toby sotto voces when she’s left.
‘You’re the one calling a snack with hairs on marvellous!’
‘They’re authentic!’
Andy’s ‘Have you tried growing chard?’ drops stillness on us. ‘Even you could be successful with chard.’
Toby does lofty superiority, ‘First a prat, and now we’ve got Alan Titchmarsh!’
’Have you heard of symbiosis?’ Andy asks him rhetorically.
‘I was successfully growing rainbow chard Andy, until a local cat chose the same location for a toilet.’
‘Maybe you’re just a shit gardener.’
I’m getting nothing good out of the evening. The pub vibe is missing and it hasn’t been until now that it’s covid choreography has emphasised just what social animals we naturally are. But I feel distanced from old ways in other ways too. I intuit Toby’s imaginings are about the landlady, Andy’s about Australia, none of us are present, maybe because now is so unlike our then, and that’s gone now.
The landlady brings pork scratchings to an effusively attentive Toby who clocks her warm eye-hold smile for me as she puts a packet of Wasabi Peas on our table, ‘On the house.’ I open the packet and offer it up to Toby. He doesn’t move and when I look up his eyes are cold.
‘We were just admiring your feed the family efforts!’ Toby chuckles.
‘What exactly is this one?’ Andy the green-fingered horticulturalist teases.
‘Pea.’
‘Not like any pea I’ve ever seen. What type is it - supposed to be?’
‘Pea type, what do you mean?’
‘I mean Maincrop? Sugarsnap? Mangetout?’ I’m irked by their obvious amusement at my obvious veg incompetence. ‘I think you may have created a new variety there!’
‘Yeah!’ Toby laughs ‘One with no peas!’
‘Don’t think you’ll get many buyers but you can name it!’
‘OK. I name it Mangefuckall. Can we go now?’
Iffy start.
Andy and Olga are still planning to live in Australia close to number two son and his husband. We plan to give them a soulful send off, with Georgie and Carol a part of it. But before that, we wanted a skinful one, time felt like it was running out and my invite to The Rat & Sofa’s opening seemed opportune. It wasn’t Toby’s preference but he got that in short order anyway.
The Rat & Sofa’s swanky opening do never came, C-19 torpedoed that and the owners now just wanted to get it going and give the till some work. So we’d agreed to start Andy’s evening there.
We weren’t there long. I told them to go ahead and get them in as my stiff-legged limpery was holding them back. When I got there, within five seconds of completing my track and tracery, I shinned into the ridiculously low table between two sofas, went over it like a felled tree and with as much noise. Glass breakage, beer spillage, a dopey scream from someone and virtuoso profanity from me. A much younger, hipper customer quipped ‘OK, Boomer?’ and I upped the ante, setting a daunting benchmark for any subsequent persona non grata - I got banned, without even having had a drink. Andy and Toby were invited to stay but declined with a gentler
touch of colour.
A happy Toby ’Can we come earlier?’ mobile call later and we’re on our way to The Blue Bell. Andy and Toby are impressively and alternately concerned and amused by my shin-barked bonus gait, walking as if already drunk. As we turn into its street, Toby upgrades his to an insouciant swagger that by the time we reach the door has become a confusion of unsynchronised limbs. As soon as we’re inside he looks for and clocks his favourite landlady, megawatting her a smile. Working the pump mobilises her décolletage and Toby’s eyes are still orbiting when she brings our pints to the table.
‘Here you are. How are you gentlemen?’
‘All the better for seeing you’ Toby instants radiantly ‘Do you still have those marvellous pork scratchings?’
Andy’s mouth falls open and my outright laugh gets me thrust back a yard by Toby’s glare.
‘Any nibbles for you two?’ she winsomes professionally.
‘Have you got any Wasabi Peas?’
Toby glares me back a bit further, ‘Ignore him, he knows nothing about peas and he’s gone a bit strange this evening.’
‘You prat!’ Toby sotto voces when she’s left.
‘You’re the one calling a snack with hairs on marvellous!’
‘They’re authentic!’
Andy’s ‘Have you tried growing chard?’ drops stillness on us. ‘Even you could be successful with chard.’
Toby does lofty superiority, ‘First a prat, and now we’ve got Alan Titchmarsh!’
’Have you heard of symbiosis?’ Andy asks him rhetorically.
‘I was successfully growing rainbow chard Andy, until a local cat chose the same location for a toilet.’
‘Maybe you’re just a shit gardener.’
I’m getting nothing good out of the evening. The pub vibe is missing and it hasn’t been until now that it’s covid choreography has emphasised just what social animals we naturally are. But I feel distanced from old ways in other ways too. I intuit Toby’s imaginings are about the landlady, Andy’s about Australia, none of us are present, maybe because now is so unlike our then, and that’s gone now.
The landlady brings pork scratchings to an effusively attentive Toby who clocks her warm eye-hold smile for me as she puts a packet of Wasabi Peas on our table, ‘On the house.’ I open the packet and offer it up to Toby. He doesn’t move and when I look up his eyes are cold.
84. Fitting in
I’ve dropped out of the conversation and gone gazy, looking at us partnered round the table, the effort made, the clothes and manners worn, and find myself wondering how we became friends, how I came to be in a corner of their social circle. What was the key? As people who successfully planned and ran their own businesses, wouldn’t Andy’s and Toby’s milieux have me taped as an outsider, whose chaotic personal and professional lives were pinballed by winging it through neglect, rebellion, drugs, wild schemes, mistimed loves and mental ill-health? This refrain always seems to dissonate when it’s harmony that’s called for.
What’s got me detuned is Toby’s detailed account of the marble tiles, the ones that were so difficult and costly to source for his and Carole’s new hardwood conservatory-cum-dining area that we’re sitting in. The table is a Homes and Gardens Vanitas of carved bird carcass, slacking veg, large cutlery, sauce slicked china, oxidising apple, biscuit crumbs and knifed cheese board. Even the candlelight has obliged by working the cut glass decanter and its wine. I feel myself floating away from the frame, the moment and the company, from the debt friendship owes, from gratitude and grace. Why? I reprove myself with ‘Arsehole!’ but forget to internalise before hurriedly adding with an antique etiquette that surprises us all, ‘Will you excuse me please?’ and assume they’ll assume I’m off for a joint in the dusking garden.
Summer has been glorying right up to the equinox. The evening is cloudless and starless - it must be a planet glittering in the low north east, I don’t know which one, but the millions of miles between us make me feel acutely more human than I did in close company. What I dislike most about the black dog’s visits is the nihilism he so silently, suddenly brings. Back in the conservatory bought with some cashed in shares before we’re too old to enjoy it, Toby is showing the table a whisky decanter, sibling to the wine one, and looks as if he is giving account of its contents as he pours for Andy and Olga. I should probably consider myself fortunate to be part of this evening’s kind of soft-lit social idyll of comfort and companionship. But one of the dog’s fleas bites me with the thought that I’m a marker for Andy and Toby, someone to measure and gauge the success of their lives by. I remember my eldest daughter remarking how one of her pretty friends would always pair up with a plain friend to go out with, so she could glam the attention. By the generally accepted acquisitive standards and tokens of a life not wasted, I feel like Andy and Toby’s plain friend. But things like marble tiles and cut glass decanters don’t strike me as sufficient reward or value for a life not wasted. I was even brutal enough to see them as confirmation that you can buy display but not taste. So here I am self-isolating so as not to contaminate people, all of whom I know deep down I love in some measure. Better fulfil the assumed assumption and smoke a joint to clear my mind, put on a face and go back inside. The flame from my lighter pulls in the dark and pinpoints a pair of surprised eyes on the lawn. I’m not worth a second look and the hedgehog scurries away on its hunt. It’s made me smile. I fancy a whisky.
‘Here he is! I don’t know why you’re still smoking that crap!’
‘It helps me feel normal, Toby.’
‘Normal!?’
‘More like you…more civilised…’
‘You have a strange idea of being normal.’
‘And a strange idea of being civilised!’ Carole adds, nodding at Toby.
‘Is that normal whisky in that decanter?’
Toby emphasises just how not normal the whisky is before pouring me one, into a cut-glass tumbler from what I’m guessing may be a large family. After a sip, I ask if I can have water in it. Toby’s reaction suggests I have failed some test, ‘Water!? The good stuff’s wasted on you!’
I feel Georgie’s hand take mine. Knowing me, she knows the moment in me that safely passes with her touch.
‘I’d rather those who appreciate it have it, really. Have you got any normal whisky?’
‘What’s normal?’
‘I wish I knew.’
What’s got me detuned is Toby’s detailed account of the marble tiles, the ones that were so difficult and costly to source for his and Carole’s new hardwood conservatory-cum-dining area that we’re sitting in. The table is a Homes and Gardens Vanitas of carved bird carcass, slacking veg, large cutlery, sauce slicked china, oxidising apple, biscuit crumbs and knifed cheese board. Even the candlelight has obliged by working the cut glass decanter and its wine. I feel myself floating away from the frame, the moment and the company, from the debt friendship owes, from gratitude and grace. Why? I reprove myself with ‘Arsehole!’ but forget to internalise before hurriedly adding with an antique etiquette that surprises us all, ‘Will you excuse me please?’ and assume they’ll assume I’m off for a joint in the dusking garden.
Summer has been glorying right up to the equinox. The evening is cloudless and starless - it must be a planet glittering in the low north east, I don’t know which one, but the millions of miles between us make me feel acutely more human than I did in close company. What I dislike most about the black dog’s visits is the nihilism he so silently, suddenly brings. Back in the conservatory bought with some cashed in shares before we’re too old to enjoy it, Toby is showing the table a whisky decanter, sibling to the wine one, and looks as if he is giving account of its contents as he pours for Andy and Olga. I should probably consider myself fortunate to be part of this evening’s kind of soft-lit social idyll of comfort and companionship. But one of the dog’s fleas bites me with the thought that I’m a marker for Andy and Toby, someone to measure and gauge the success of their lives by. I remember my eldest daughter remarking how one of her pretty friends would always pair up with a plain friend to go out with, so she could glam the attention. By the generally accepted acquisitive standards and tokens of a life not wasted, I feel like Andy and Toby’s plain friend. But things like marble tiles and cut glass decanters don’t strike me as sufficient reward or value for a life not wasted. I was even brutal enough to see them as confirmation that you can buy display but not taste. So here I am self-isolating so as not to contaminate people, all of whom I know deep down I love in some measure. Better fulfil the assumed assumption and smoke a joint to clear my mind, put on a face and go back inside. The flame from my lighter pulls in the dark and pinpoints a pair of surprised eyes on the lawn. I’m not worth a second look and the hedgehog scurries away on its hunt. It’s made me smile. I fancy a whisky.
‘Here he is! I don’t know why you’re still smoking that crap!’
‘It helps me feel normal, Toby.’
‘Normal!?’
‘More like you…more civilised…’
‘You have a strange idea of being normal.’
‘And a strange idea of being civilised!’ Carole adds, nodding at Toby.
‘Is that normal whisky in that decanter?’
Toby emphasises just how not normal the whisky is before pouring me one, into a cut-glass tumbler from what I’m guessing may be a large family. After a sip, I ask if I can have water in it. Toby’s reaction suggests I have failed some test, ‘Water!? The good stuff’s wasted on you!’
I feel Georgie’s hand take mine. Knowing me, she knows the moment in me that safely passes with her touch.
‘I’d rather those who appreciate it have it, really. Have you got any normal whisky?’
‘What’s normal?’
‘I wish I knew.’
85. Relegation Battle
Georgie sounds concerned, I gather from her side of the telephone conversation she’s having with Carole that the source of concern is Toby. Before she hangs up, she commits me to what sounds like a rescue mission.
‘Carole says Toby’s gone into some kind of covid funk - says he’s in a downward spiral of apathy and gloom!’
‘Oh!’
‘So I said you’d drop round and give him a boost.’
‘Oh did you? At least he’s spiralling, I took a lift to the basement.’
‘You?! You’re up and down like a yo-yo. He’s gone down and stayed down.’
‘He’ll come out of it!’
‘Go and see him!’
Georgie can be quite imperious.
Years back, I agreed to do a presentation and talk as a favour for a public sector outfit at one of the hireable suites at Stamford Bridge. They covered my costs and gave me a gift shop hip flask as a thank you. It had a lion and CFC engraved on it. As a West Ham supporter I failed to take to it. So now I find it, clean it and fill it with whisky to give to Toby. Then I mirror it’s contents in the Celtic knotwork flask I actually do like but that I dented badly when I fell over with it, it being empty and me full. I wrap up against the
dreich and set off with a flask on each hip, some fresh-rolleds and a refuelled Zippo.
At Toby’s house, I stand at the back gate and watch him feed a pile of smoking leaves from a bigger pile of damp ones. He looks raggedy to me.
‘Looks like you’ve let yourself go Toby!’
He flicks me a glance, ‘You’re here because of Carole aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m here because of Georgie. Mostly. But some of me is here to understand what’s got you down...and why you’re channeling Worzel Gummidge.’ I throw him the hip flask, which he makes no attempt to catch, watching it land at his feet,
‘Didn’t know you were a Chelsea supporter.’
‘Don’t go there Toby. Who do you support, if anyone?’
‘If anyone, The Iron.’
‘Ah! Scunthorpe...’ I stop myself quoting John Cooper Clarke, ‘Let’s drink to life Toby!’
‘Why? We’re all fucked!’
‘Okay. Let’s drink to death then!’ This is going to be hard work.
He picks up the flask, ‘What’s in it?’
‘Orange juice. I heard you were in a sulk so I got the special baby stuff just for you.’
’Sulk!? I’m having an existential crisis! I’m riddled with angst!’
’You have to be a West Ham supporter to be riddled with that stuff, but I’ve got a copy of The Roads to Freedom you can borrow - if you want. Meantime, have a swig from that flask.’
As he bends to pick the flask up, his hat falls off and lands on the burn pile. He stares at it, takes a swig, pokes it deeper in with his stick, ‘Man is like to vanity: his days are as a shadow that passeth away.’
‘Jesus, Toby!’
‘Its true! What else will we remember 2020 for?’
‘Well, our youngest daughter got married, had a baby; that son-in-law got made redundant first week in December. Our eldest daughter separated from the other son-in-law, who has since declared he’s gay. Georgie and me have both worked our way into
the NHS pipeline, with de-crocking surgery on the cards added to which, having discovered there’s a whisky that gives me a headache, I’m having to face up to the fact I’m no longer bullet-proof. But that’s not the same as being where you are.’
I light one of my pre-prepareds.
Toby grimaces, ‘You see! I’m a realist. I acknowledge we’re going down the tubes, fast.
The trouble with you is you can’t face up to that - smoking that stuff, wearing yellow trousers and a beret, carrying that poncey walking stick.’
‘If this is you being real Toby, you can stuff it. And I’m not taking sartorial advice from a walking bird scarer who tries setting light to his own hat - even if it is the best thing for it.’
Seemingly stung, Toby grabs his hat from the pile and jams it back on. There’s smouldery smoke coming from it. I get my mobile out and take a picture before telling him.
’So what did you come here for? To wind me up?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘Takes to what?’
‘Get you going.’
He gets agitato. Tells me how I should take life more seriously, tells me what I’ve failed to do, what I might have done, the kind of things he’s done to be proud of, meaningful things, waves expansively at his house and garden as evidence of achievement. He’s
building into one of his full-on, finger-emphasised lectures when he realises that I’ve got
him going, falls silent and gurns a smile.
‘Two left Toby. Want one?’
He catches it carefully, ’Smartarse!’
‘You know John Cooper Clarke?’
‘Who?’
‘Poet. Punk poet, maybe.’
‘Another one of those degenerates you like?’
Job done?
I wonder...
‘Carole says Toby’s gone into some kind of covid funk - says he’s in a downward spiral of apathy and gloom!’
‘Oh!’
‘So I said you’d drop round and give him a boost.’
‘Oh did you? At least he’s spiralling, I took a lift to the basement.’
‘You?! You’re up and down like a yo-yo. He’s gone down and stayed down.’
‘He’ll come out of it!’
‘Go and see him!’
Georgie can be quite imperious.
Years back, I agreed to do a presentation and talk as a favour for a public sector outfit at one of the hireable suites at Stamford Bridge. They covered my costs and gave me a gift shop hip flask as a thank you. It had a lion and CFC engraved on it. As a West Ham supporter I failed to take to it. So now I find it, clean it and fill it with whisky to give to Toby. Then I mirror it’s contents in the Celtic knotwork flask I actually do like but that I dented badly when I fell over with it, it being empty and me full. I wrap up against the
dreich and set off with a flask on each hip, some fresh-rolleds and a refuelled Zippo.
At Toby’s house, I stand at the back gate and watch him feed a pile of smoking leaves from a bigger pile of damp ones. He looks raggedy to me.
‘Looks like you’ve let yourself go Toby!’
He flicks me a glance, ‘You’re here because of Carole aren’t you?’
‘No, I’m here because of Georgie. Mostly. But some of me is here to understand what’s got you down...and why you’re channeling Worzel Gummidge.’ I throw him the hip flask, which he makes no attempt to catch, watching it land at his feet,
‘Didn’t know you were a Chelsea supporter.’
‘Don’t go there Toby. Who do you support, if anyone?’
‘If anyone, The Iron.’
‘Ah! Scunthorpe...’ I stop myself quoting John Cooper Clarke, ‘Let’s drink to life Toby!’
‘Why? We’re all fucked!’
‘Okay. Let’s drink to death then!’ This is going to be hard work.
He picks up the flask, ‘What’s in it?’
‘Orange juice. I heard you were in a sulk so I got the special baby stuff just for you.’
’Sulk!? I’m having an existential crisis! I’m riddled with angst!’
’You have to be a West Ham supporter to be riddled with that stuff, but I’ve got a copy of The Roads to Freedom you can borrow - if you want. Meantime, have a swig from that flask.’
As he bends to pick the flask up, his hat falls off and lands on the burn pile. He stares at it, takes a swig, pokes it deeper in with his stick, ‘Man is like to vanity: his days are as a shadow that passeth away.’
‘Jesus, Toby!’
‘Its true! What else will we remember 2020 for?’
‘Well, our youngest daughter got married, had a baby; that son-in-law got made redundant first week in December. Our eldest daughter separated from the other son-in-law, who has since declared he’s gay. Georgie and me have both worked our way into
the NHS pipeline, with de-crocking surgery on the cards added to which, having discovered there’s a whisky that gives me a headache, I’m having to face up to the fact I’m no longer bullet-proof. But that’s not the same as being where you are.’
I light one of my pre-prepareds.
Toby grimaces, ‘You see! I’m a realist. I acknowledge we’re going down the tubes, fast.
The trouble with you is you can’t face up to that - smoking that stuff, wearing yellow trousers and a beret, carrying that poncey walking stick.’
‘If this is you being real Toby, you can stuff it. And I’m not taking sartorial advice from a walking bird scarer who tries setting light to his own hat - even if it is the best thing for it.’
Seemingly stung, Toby grabs his hat from the pile and jams it back on. There’s smouldery smoke coming from it. I get my mobile out and take a picture before telling him.
’So what did you come here for? To wind me up?’
‘If that’s what it takes.’
‘Takes to what?’
‘Get you going.’
He gets agitato. Tells me how I should take life more seriously, tells me what I’ve failed to do, what I might have done, the kind of things he’s done to be proud of, meaningful things, waves expansively at his house and garden as evidence of achievement. He’s
building into one of his full-on, finger-emphasised lectures when he realises that I’ve got
him going, falls silent and gurns a smile.
‘Two left Toby. Want one?’
He catches it carefully, ’Smartarse!’
‘You know John Cooper Clarke?’
‘Who?’
‘Poet. Punk poet, maybe.’
‘Another one of those degenerates you like?’
Job done?
I wonder...
86. Merry Christmas
‘Give me that remote!’
‘Why? Because I turned the TV off?’
‘No, because of the way you turn it off.’
‘Off is off.’
‘And the radio. You’re like a potty mouthed Victor Meldrew.’
‘It’s criticism.’
‘Saying “Fuck off, arseholes!” when you turn it off isn’t criticism.’
‘I’m trying to be...more cogent.’
‘A bit of variety wouldn’t go amiss, you never used to swear like that when we first met.’
‘Of course not! I was in the game then. Like Woody Allen said, you can't expect me to keep up that level of charm, I'd have a heart attack.’
‘Well, you’re getting worse.’
’Maybe there’s a correlation with the standard of so-called entertainment. And I did use to. Remember when I said exactly the same thing to those blokes who were bothering you?’
‘How can I forget? They beat you up!’
‘True...but it was worth it...darling!’
‘And you should get your hearing aids sorted, even with them in you have everything
loud.’
‘I just find some things indistinct.’
‘Right. Like that woman with her son in the Co-Op today.’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘Who calls their son Lard?’
‘He was skinny, I thought maybe it’s a nickname - irony or whatever.’
‘I could tell she was offended.’
‘Lars wasn’t, he was laughing - at me, I reckon.’
‘He was probably mortified.’
‘Come on! Who isn’t at that age anyway? It’s like having to walk on eggshells.’
‘I was mortified!’
‘Really? You were laughing at the time.’
‘That was me feeling mortified, embarrassed. It’s always the same with you, coming out with stuff like that.’
‘Always?’
‘And you’re always the one to complain, always the one to make a fuss, always the one to create a scene, and if anything weird happens, it always happens to you. You kept all that well-hidden when we first met.’
‘If you’d grown up in my family, you’d know that I’m a model of decorum.’
‘I should have twigged when you first took me to meet your parents and you and yourdad got pissed on the lawn!’
‘I come from a line of dedicated drunkards, antagonists and world-class blasphemers.
What you have now is...in no small part down to your civilising influence.’
‘Who said?’
‘My mum. Said it way back then.’
’No she didn’t, she said that I “saved you”.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No it isn’t! She meant from drugs and thievery and...’
‘..go on.’
‘All that stuff - mental illness, living with older women, throwing your life away...suicide shit!’
Weighty silence. It grows. Clock ticks. Radiators crink. Dog gets a vibe, begs attention.
Off TV black holes with dull reflection. Remote lies on the sofa between us. I close my eyes. Lean back, fall back, swim back, drown a bit.
I book and whisky upstairs, lie on the bed and give them my full distraction. Georgie calls after me ’Sorry! I’ve been...not a good day.’
’Sure...’
She joins and lays beside me, finds my hand. Squeezes. Kisses. ‘I didn’t mean...’
‘I know.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking you did save me.’
And the unspoken ‘Fuck me! I didn’t realise being a TV critic was so hazardous.’
‘Why? Because I turned the TV off?’
‘No, because of the way you turn it off.’
‘Off is off.’
‘And the radio. You’re like a potty mouthed Victor Meldrew.’
‘It’s criticism.’
‘Saying “Fuck off, arseholes!” when you turn it off isn’t criticism.’
‘I’m trying to be...more cogent.’
‘A bit of variety wouldn’t go amiss, you never used to swear like that when we first met.’
‘Of course not! I was in the game then. Like Woody Allen said, you can't expect me to keep up that level of charm, I'd have a heart attack.’
‘Well, you’re getting worse.’
’Maybe there’s a correlation with the standard of so-called entertainment. And I did use to. Remember when I said exactly the same thing to those blokes who were bothering you?’
‘How can I forget? They beat you up!’
‘True...but it was worth it...darling!’
‘And you should get your hearing aids sorted, even with them in you have everything
loud.’
‘I just find some things indistinct.’
‘Right. Like that woman with her son in the Co-Op today.’
‘Yes, like that.’
‘Who calls their son Lard?’
‘He was skinny, I thought maybe it’s a nickname - irony or whatever.’
‘I could tell she was offended.’
‘Lars wasn’t, he was laughing - at me, I reckon.’
‘He was probably mortified.’
‘Come on! Who isn’t at that age anyway? It’s like having to walk on eggshells.’
‘I was mortified!’
‘Really? You were laughing at the time.’
‘That was me feeling mortified, embarrassed. It’s always the same with you, coming out with stuff like that.’
‘Always?’
‘And you’re always the one to complain, always the one to make a fuss, always the one to create a scene, and if anything weird happens, it always happens to you. You kept all that well-hidden when we first met.’
‘If you’d grown up in my family, you’d know that I’m a model of decorum.’
‘I should have twigged when you first took me to meet your parents and you and yourdad got pissed on the lawn!’
‘I come from a line of dedicated drunkards, antagonists and world-class blasphemers.
What you have now is...in no small part down to your civilising influence.’
‘Who said?’
‘My mum. Said it way back then.’
’No she didn’t, she said that I “saved you”.’
‘Same thing.’
‘No it isn’t! She meant from drugs and thievery and...’
‘..go on.’
‘All that stuff - mental illness, living with older women, throwing your life away...suicide shit!’
Weighty silence. It grows. Clock ticks. Radiators crink. Dog gets a vibe, begs attention.
Off TV black holes with dull reflection. Remote lies on the sofa between us. I close my eyes. Lean back, fall back, swim back, drown a bit.
I book and whisky upstairs, lie on the bed and give them my full distraction. Georgie calls after me ’Sorry! I’ve been...not a good day.’
’Sure...’
She joins and lays beside me, finds my hand. Squeezes. Kisses. ‘I didn’t mean...’
‘I know.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m thinking you did save me.’
And the unspoken ‘Fuck me! I didn’t realise being a TV critic was so hazardous.’
87. Free the Garden Three!
At the time Toby called this ‘exciting meeting’ the rule of six had dropped back into place and the weather was set fair for a balmy evening. Now the weather hails from the North to reassert the proper Bank Holiday order of things and there’s a blazing fire pit on the lawn. Georgie and Olga said they felt cold, and gratefully agreed to Carole’s covid rebel suggestion they move to the ‘Garden Room’ that most people would call a conservatory and that I call a lean-to when mischief bubbles in me.
Logs crackle and the wind whirls up flurries of sparks. Andy, Toby and me triangulate round the fire and though I can feel some heat, I’m shivery and glad I brought the gear to repeatedly make Rusty Nails. Andy’s supping beer, Toby’s on brandy and has steered the conversation to the late Dun Cow. It’s a large brandy in a big balloon, he swirls as he recaps the DunCow’s demise, '…and anyway, you remember when we first heard that turkey of a landlord was going to lose the Dun Cow and we decided to make it a community pub?’
‘You mean when we got info on how to go about it?’ Andy corrects.
‘That’s right, when I got some info and tried getting you two interested…’
We wait.
‘…well, as a keen observer of the government’s economic stimulus measures…’
Andy laughs and Toby goes stoney.
’Get to it Toby!’ I say, ‘Are we going to rename it The Phoenix?’
‘Okay, so I’m transparent, but now’s the time to get it off the ground and we three…’ he eyes us meaningfully, ‘…are the ones to do it.’ He swirls, sips.
‘We may have kept them going Toby but none of us has run a pub before.’
Toby lines me up with a smugly smile, ‘That’s why I’ve been consulting the Blue Bell.’
‘Ah! You mean Morwen the Welsh Temptress!’
’As much as I might find her attractive Andy…’
‘Might! You nearly tripped over your tongue last time we went there!’
’As much as I might find her attractive Andy…she is successfully running a pub!’
’So why would she want competition?’ I wonder.
‘Because…if we go ahead…we’ll need match funding for government money and she might be prepared to invest if it stacks up.’
‘Really?’
‘Along with us, of course.’
‘Us?’
‘And the other investors.’
‘Who are they?’
Toby taps the side of his nose, swirls, sips and says nonchalantly ‘We need a management board. We’ll be Directors’.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, US!’ Toby leans forward, ‘You and me have run profitable businesses before Andy, we know what it takes, we have the acumen.’
I’m making another Rusty Nail, when I realise they are staring at me.
‘What?’
‘Like I said, Andy and me have run businesses before. We need to start off on the right foot - what will you bring to the party?’
‘I didn’t realise I was coming here for an interview Toby! What makes you think I want to be a director? Or even a part of this?’
‘We want you to be a part, don’t we Andy? We’re a team!’
‘Well, we go out drinking together…’
‘Right! Tick that pub box straightaway!’
‘I have to be honest Toby, I have the same reservations I had before covid upped the ante on them.’
‘People will go crazy to get back into pubs when they can. There’s fortunes to be made!’
‘I don’t need a fortune. We have enough for our needs and I’m happy not working.’
Toby rocks back. ‘Have you always lacked ambition?’
‘That’s a bit strong Toby! You don’t even know if I’ll be interested.’
‘Of course you are Andy, it’s your DNA!’
’To answer your question Toby, no. But I started to see ambition differently when I saw what it could make people do, and become.’
’Successful people!’
‘I took my own measure to that.’
‘For now then, for Andy and me…’
‘For Toby!’
‘…for me then, there must be something you could be director of! Something meaningful to you. I guarantee you’ll love it!’
Toby noisily pokes the fire to bridge the hiatus, throws another log on. Sparks and smoke engulf us again.
‘Director of Ambience.’
‘Really. Sounds vague. What does that involve?’
‘I’ll need some funding for my research.’
‘Research?’
‘I need to visit pubs, make notes on their ambience, see what works.’
‘Why can’t you just look at pictures on the web?’
‘That Toby, is why I’m Director of Ambience and not you.’
‘I don’t know…are you good with figures?’
‘If they contribute to the ambience.’
‘Like, how?’
‘Like…pictures, say.’
‘Like Morwen? Andy adds.
’Sorry!’ Toby says, ’That’s me. Personnel’
‘HR.’ Andy updates.
We hadn’t noticed Carole approaching us across the lawn. ‘Do you boys want a sandwich or something?’
We Yes please! and as she turns for the house Carole asks ‘Who’s Morwen?’
‘A potential member of staff for the reborn Dun Cow, darling.’
Toby chuckles and pours another brandy. ‘Personnel. HR. Whatever, Andy. One thing’s clear, out of us, I’m the people person. Look how I’ve handled you lot this evening.’
I raise my glass, ‘A toast.’
‘That’s more like it!’
‘Here’s to you not handling more of your staff.’
Sparks flying gain.
Logs crackle and the wind whirls up flurries of sparks. Andy, Toby and me triangulate round the fire and though I can feel some heat, I’m shivery and glad I brought the gear to repeatedly make Rusty Nails. Andy’s supping beer, Toby’s on brandy and has steered the conversation to the late Dun Cow. It’s a large brandy in a big balloon, he swirls as he recaps the DunCow’s demise, '…and anyway, you remember when we first heard that turkey of a landlord was going to lose the Dun Cow and we decided to make it a community pub?’
‘You mean when we got info on how to go about it?’ Andy corrects.
‘That’s right, when I got some info and tried getting you two interested…’
We wait.
‘…well, as a keen observer of the government’s economic stimulus measures…’
Andy laughs and Toby goes stoney.
’Get to it Toby!’ I say, ‘Are we going to rename it The Phoenix?’
‘Okay, so I’m transparent, but now’s the time to get it off the ground and we three…’ he eyes us meaningfully, ‘…are the ones to do it.’ He swirls, sips.
‘We may have kept them going Toby but none of us has run a pub before.’
Toby lines me up with a smugly smile, ‘That’s why I’ve been consulting the Blue Bell.’
‘Ah! You mean Morwen the Welsh Temptress!’
’As much as I might find her attractive Andy…’
‘Might! You nearly tripped over your tongue last time we went there!’
’As much as I might find her attractive Andy…she is successfully running a pub!’
’So why would she want competition?’ I wonder.
‘Because…if we go ahead…we’ll need match funding for government money and she might be prepared to invest if it stacks up.’
‘Really?’
‘Along with us, of course.’
‘Us?’
‘And the other investors.’
‘Who are they?’
Toby taps the side of his nose, swirls, sips and says nonchalantly ‘We need a management board. We’ll be Directors’.
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, US!’ Toby leans forward, ‘You and me have run profitable businesses before Andy, we know what it takes, we have the acumen.’
I’m making another Rusty Nail, when I realise they are staring at me.
‘What?’
‘Like I said, Andy and me have run businesses before. We need to start off on the right foot - what will you bring to the party?’
‘I didn’t realise I was coming here for an interview Toby! What makes you think I want to be a director? Or even a part of this?’
‘We want you to be a part, don’t we Andy? We’re a team!’
‘Well, we go out drinking together…’
‘Right! Tick that pub box straightaway!’
‘I have to be honest Toby, I have the same reservations I had before covid upped the ante on them.’
‘People will go crazy to get back into pubs when they can. There’s fortunes to be made!’
‘I don’t need a fortune. We have enough for our needs and I’m happy not working.’
Toby rocks back. ‘Have you always lacked ambition?’
‘That’s a bit strong Toby! You don’t even know if I’ll be interested.’
‘Of course you are Andy, it’s your DNA!’
’To answer your question Toby, no. But I started to see ambition differently when I saw what it could make people do, and become.’
’Successful people!’
‘I took my own measure to that.’
‘For now then, for Andy and me…’
‘For Toby!’
‘…for me then, there must be something you could be director of! Something meaningful to you. I guarantee you’ll love it!’
Toby noisily pokes the fire to bridge the hiatus, throws another log on. Sparks and smoke engulf us again.
‘Director of Ambience.’
‘Really. Sounds vague. What does that involve?’
‘I’ll need some funding for my research.’
‘Research?’
‘I need to visit pubs, make notes on their ambience, see what works.’
‘Why can’t you just look at pictures on the web?’
‘That Toby, is why I’m Director of Ambience and not you.’
‘I don’t know…are you good with figures?’
‘If they contribute to the ambience.’
‘Like, how?’
‘Like…pictures, say.’
‘Like Morwen? Andy adds.
’Sorry!’ Toby says, ’That’s me. Personnel’
‘HR.’ Andy updates.
We hadn’t noticed Carole approaching us across the lawn. ‘Do you boys want a sandwich or something?’
We Yes please! and as she turns for the house Carole asks ‘Who’s Morwen?’
‘A potential member of staff for the reborn Dun Cow, darling.’
Toby chuckles and pours another brandy. ‘Personnel. HR. Whatever, Andy. One thing’s clear, out of us, I’m the people person. Look how I’ve handled you lot this evening.’
I raise my glass, ‘A toast.’
‘That’s more like it!’
‘Here’s to you not handling more of your staff.’
Sparks flying gain.
88. Outplayer
Toby bought a ‘vintage croquet set’ on eBay. He said it was economics. Andy swallowed that but I know Toby would want people to think he’d been playing it for ever, went for something showing use and passed off the practice hoop holes in his manicured lawn as aeration.
Having been moved into the Dun Cow’s major surgery safe zone as the (non-executive) Director of Ambience, I was surprised to receive the invite. But the big investor Toby needs on board now The Blue Bell’s Morwen has dropped out, wants to meet all the currently interested parties and Toby greets me with a longhold killer hand grip and a sotto voce warning to be on my absolute ‘Don’t screw things up!’ best behaviour.
Then it’s masked-up, double-vaccinated, ball-thocking choreography and angle-guessing. The drone of conversations is punctuated by low laughs and ‘Dun Cow’. I get through it gaffe-free but easy meat for the experienced opposition. Toby often regales Andy and me with how he conducted some of his most important business deals on the golf course. But that scene, being as alien to me as this one, left me wondering whether my role now should be to entertain, win, or lose. I lost.
We take a mingle break. Big Investor seems an okay kind of chap but our brief conversation on pub ambience gets his gaze drifting and attention following after. I guess he's more of a club man. He moves on, and to conserve my stock of best behaviour, I go peripheral to take in the scene.
Mrs Big Investor unreveries me from the Selling England by the Pound LP cover I was reminded of.
‘Have you known Toby long?’
‘A good few years now.’
‘Do you think he seems troubled today?’
‘Maybe a bit agitato. He likes things to go right and puts a lot into it.’
‘He’s normally so confident. He’s worried about something don’t you think?
‘If he is, I don’t think it’s about this venture.’ I opportune.
‘No?’
‘Well, maybe - but only indirectly. He might be worried about me getting pissed on Pimms and letting the show down.’
Mrs Big Investor big laughs, asks me if I’ve played before. I thought it was obvious to anyone who had, that I hadn’t. But I guess this was just her intro to demonstrating different grips on the mallet and with accompanying eye lock, ‘The importance of how you swing it between your legs’.
OooF!
We chat a while. She ‘totally gets ambience’ and I keep myself in the kind of order that proves a strain. If Mrs Big Investor is being merely gracious, she is warmly so. Pamela ‘I hate it when Dicky calls me Pam’ hooks her arm familiarly through mine and leads me towards the table piled with decrusted triangular sandwiches and sundry al fresco nosh.
‘Does he hate it when you call him Dicky?’
‘Oh no! It’s a term of endearment!’
Her big laugh and me as company gets Toby tracking us. He detaches himself from his company to join ours.
‘Everything okay Pamela?’
‘Toby! Where have you been hiding your friend? We’ve been having a lovely chat - and he’s such a charmer!’
‘Charmer!?’ Toby eyes me suspiciously.
‘I have to catch up with Dicky.’ She gives me a soft little kiss on the cheek, ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye.’
The killer hand grip is now on my forearm, ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing! Mr Straight, just like you wanted!’
‘Well well! I think she’s taken a shine to you!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised Toby! “I was adored once too”.’
‘Whatever. You see what this means don’t you?’
‘You’re glad/sorry delete as appropriate that you invited me?’
‘This could be the clincher. You know the money’s all hers?’
‘I don’t know anything about Mr and Mrs Big Investor.’
‘All hers. Richard’s very untalented. The only business he tried running, he ran into the ground. She’s the shrewdy. He’s just the front when she thinks he’s needed.’
‘Like, when?’
‘Men only stuff - you know.’
‘Like what? - Oh! I see. The funny handshake boys?’
’She doesn’t like it either. I’ve only ever seen her at one Ladies’ Night and I thought she was going to combust. But that doesn’t stop her using it to her advantage through Richard.’
’So that’s why she asked me if I belonged to anything like that.’
‘I hope you didn’t try pretending you did!’
‘Why would I! Not even for you! Anyway I do. And I told her.’
Toby is stunned. ’You never told me!’
‘You have your lodges, we have our tents.’
‘Tents? TENTS?’
I lean forward and whisper, ’Sons of the Desert’.
Toby’s utter bafflement is dispelled by Andy, ’How’s it going?’
‘Did you know he belongs to the Sons of the Desert?’
Andy grins.
‘And he’s never told us but he’s told Pamela - who he only just met this afternoon!’
‘Ah, the lovely Pamela!’
‘And yeah, also, she’s taken a fancy to him - and she only just met him this afternoon!’
‘Disappointed Toby?’
‘Of course not Andy, but you know - him! But that can work for us.’
‘You gonna pimp him out?’
‘How very dare you!’
‘I need to get going Toby’
‘No, stay! - Wait! - Don’t forget to say goodbye to Pamela!’
Having been moved into the Dun Cow’s major surgery safe zone as the (non-executive) Director of Ambience, I was surprised to receive the invite. But the big investor Toby needs on board now The Blue Bell’s Morwen has dropped out, wants to meet all the currently interested parties and Toby greets me with a longhold killer hand grip and a sotto voce warning to be on my absolute ‘Don’t screw things up!’ best behaviour.
Then it’s masked-up, double-vaccinated, ball-thocking choreography and angle-guessing. The drone of conversations is punctuated by low laughs and ‘Dun Cow’. I get through it gaffe-free but easy meat for the experienced opposition. Toby often regales Andy and me with how he conducted some of his most important business deals on the golf course. But that scene, being as alien to me as this one, left me wondering whether my role now should be to entertain, win, or lose. I lost.
We take a mingle break. Big Investor seems an okay kind of chap but our brief conversation on pub ambience gets his gaze drifting and attention following after. I guess he's more of a club man. He moves on, and to conserve my stock of best behaviour, I go peripheral to take in the scene.
Mrs Big Investor unreveries me from the Selling England by the Pound LP cover I was reminded of.
‘Have you known Toby long?’
‘A good few years now.’
‘Do you think he seems troubled today?’
‘Maybe a bit agitato. He likes things to go right and puts a lot into it.’
‘He’s normally so confident. He’s worried about something don’t you think?
‘If he is, I don’t think it’s about this venture.’ I opportune.
‘No?’
‘Well, maybe - but only indirectly. He might be worried about me getting pissed on Pimms and letting the show down.’
Mrs Big Investor big laughs, asks me if I’ve played before. I thought it was obvious to anyone who had, that I hadn’t. But I guess this was just her intro to demonstrating different grips on the mallet and with accompanying eye lock, ‘The importance of how you swing it between your legs’.
OooF!
We chat a while. She ‘totally gets ambience’ and I keep myself in the kind of order that proves a strain. If Mrs Big Investor is being merely gracious, she is warmly so. Pamela ‘I hate it when Dicky calls me Pam’ hooks her arm familiarly through mine and leads me towards the table piled with decrusted triangular sandwiches and sundry al fresco nosh.
‘Does he hate it when you call him Dicky?’
‘Oh no! It’s a term of endearment!’
Her big laugh and me as company gets Toby tracking us. He detaches himself from his company to join ours.
‘Everything okay Pamela?’
‘Toby! Where have you been hiding your friend? We’ve been having a lovely chat - and he’s such a charmer!’
‘Charmer!?’ Toby eyes me suspiciously.
‘I have to catch up with Dicky.’ She gives me a soft little kiss on the cheek, ‘Don’t leave without saying goodbye.’
The killer hand grip is now on my forearm, ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing! Mr Straight, just like you wanted!’
‘Well well! I think she’s taken a shine to you!’
‘Don’t sound so surprised Toby! “I was adored once too”.’
‘Whatever. You see what this means don’t you?’
‘You’re glad/sorry delete as appropriate that you invited me?’
‘This could be the clincher. You know the money’s all hers?’
‘I don’t know anything about Mr and Mrs Big Investor.’
‘All hers. Richard’s very untalented. The only business he tried running, he ran into the ground. She’s the shrewdy. He’s just the front when she thinks he’s needed.’
‘Like, when?’
‘Men only stuff - you know.’
‘Like what? - Oh! I see. The funny handshake boys?’
’She doesn’t like it either. I’ve only ever seen her at one Ladies’ Night and I thought she was going to combust. But that doesn’t stop her using it to her advantage through Richard.’
’So that’s why she asked me if I belonged to anything like that.’
‘I hope you didn’t try pretending you did!’
‘Why would I! Not even for you! Anyway I do. And I told her.’
Toby is stunned. ’You never told me!’
‘You have your lodges, we have our tents.’
‘Tents? TENTS?’
I lean forward and whisper, ’Sons of the Desert’.
Toby’s utter bafflement is dispelled by Andy, ’How’s it going?’
‘Did you know he belongs to the Sons of the Desert?’
Andy grins.
‘And he’s never told us but he’s told Pamela - who he only just met this afternoon!’
‘Ah, the lovely Pamela!’
‘And yeah, also, she’s taken a fancy to him - and she only just met him this afternoon!’
‘Disappointed Toby?’
‘Of course not Andy, but you know - him! But that can work for us.’
‘You gonna pimp him out?’
‘How very dare you!’
‘I need to get going Toby’
‘No, stay! - Wait! - Don’t forget to say goodbye to Pamela!’
89. Changes
Since he announced their intention, the plan had been for us to give Andy and Olga the big, fond farewell as they head for Australia. But covid spannered those works and they are still here in the UK as another season of mists and mellow fruitfulness looks set to fall dully short of Keats’ vision.
Now, with my news, Toby says the burning of The Dun Cow was a portent and he knew it all along.
‘Of what?’
‘For us three, for it coming to an end.’
‘Everything comes to an end Toby. Things change.’
‘Yes Andy. Doesn’t mean you have to like it.’
Toby is reacting to me telling them Georgie and me are moving to a different part of the country, our last move, our last winnowing.
‘What do you want to do that for?’ required an answer more thoughtful and lengthy than I was prepared to give sat round a pub table with a pint. But if I had given a full response, getting away from sitting round a pub table with a pint as we were right then would have played its small part. I love their company - but. Andy and Olga will be going to join number one son as soon as Australia lets them and he’s right, things change. Until recently, covid had confined most of our meetings to virtuality in one malfunctioning form or another. My time on morphine meant no alcohol and I haven’t got my previous enthusiasm for beer back. My pint has become a challenge. I’m thinner, Toby’s fatter, Andy’s looking weary. It feels to me that the momentum of our pre-covid meetings, slowed by care and caution, isn’t now enough to maintain us. Or maybe it’s just the knowledge that I’ll be leaving them for pastures new. Even as I say ‘We’ll keep in touch!’ I know the drift has started and the swell of time will distance us in ways that travel can’t span.
‘Covid has got a lot of people reassessing things.’ Andy says ‘There’s no going back to how they did things before Toby.’
‘Or how they thought about things’ I add.
‘But things are getting back to normal. Look at us here, look at the people in this pub.’
The Blue Bell is pretty packed, some are intermittently masked, most aren’t. But ‘things’ remain different. Mortality came and spectred us all and if carpe diem desire now has many in thrall, desires take us differently. My pint is going flat. I want whiskey instead. They decline my offer. Things have changed. For no reason except that I like to sing it when I hear it, Paul Simon’s American Tune circles in my head as I wait to no touchy-touchy ApplePay for my whiskey:
…And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
Back at the table, conversation has flagged. ‘So, how long before you move?’
‘Just agreeing a date for completion Andy, and we’ll be going.’
Just as Toby couldn’t ‘get a handle’ on why Andy wanted to go to Australia, he does mystification with me, ‘What do you want to go North for? Why not South, you’re a Londoner.’
‘And good luck affording a place there!’ I reply.
We lived some very important years in ‘The North’. Seeing that vague and conceptual motorway sign again in my mind’s eye makes me smile. ‘We have family there Toby…and…we like it.’
‘They won’t like you with your London accent and fancy ways!’
‘I think you’ve been watching too many sixties films. We had no problems when we lived there before.’
‘Well, I’m just sorry it’s coming to an end.’
‘You’ve got all your funny handshake mates Toby, and the Rotarians and God knows what other fraternities, clubs and cabals you belong to.’
‘I don’t do that stuff anymore!’
’Since when?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.
’Since he got passed over for some grandness or worshipfulness!’ Andy laughs, ‘Didn’t you tell him Toby?’
‘You know how he feels about all that! Why would I give him carte blanche to take the piss?’
‘It may not be my kind of thing Toby but I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed.’
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
‘Disappointed! If only you knew how much…’ he stops himself, ’…anyway, forget all that stuff, this is no way to spend our last drink together!’
And we simultaneously, suddenly and falling silently wholly realise it will be. Things have changed.
Now, with my news, Toby says the burning of The Dun Cow was a portent and he knew it all along.
‘Of what?’
‘For us three, for it coming to an end.’
‘Everything comes to an end Toby. Things change.’
‘Yes Andy. Doesn’t mean you have to like it.’
Toby is reacting to me telling them Georgie and me are moving to a different part of the country, our last move, our last winnowing.
‘What do you want to do that for?’ required an answer more thoughtful and lengthy than I was prepared to give sat round a pub table with a pint. But if I had given a full response, getting away from sitting round a pub table with a pint as we were right then would have played its small part. I love their company - but. Andy and Olga will be going to join number one son as soon as Australia lets them and he’s right, things change. Until recently, covid had confined most of our meetings to virtuality in one malfunctioning form or another. My time on morphine meant no alcohol and I haven’t got my previous enthusiasm for beer back. My pint has become a challenge. I’m thinner, Toby’s fatter, Andy’s looking weary. It feels to me that the momentum of our pre-covid meetings, slowed by care and caution, isn’t now enough to maintain us. Or maybe it’s just the knowledge that I’ll be leaving them for pastures new. Even as I say ‘We’ll keep in touch!’ I know the drift has started and the swell of time will distance us in ways that travel can’t span.
‘Covid has got a lot of people reassessing things.’ Andy says ‘There’s no going back to how they did things before Toby.’
‘Or how they thought about things’ I add.
‘But things are getting back to normal. Look at us here, look at the people in this pub.’
The Blue Bell is pretty packed, some are intermittently masked, most aren’t. But ‘things’ remain different. Mortality came and spectred us all and if carpe diem desire now has many in thrall, desires take us differently. My pint is going flat. I want whiskey instead. They decline my offer. Things have changed. For no reason except that I like to sing it when I hear it, Paul Simon’s American Tune circles in my head as I wait to no touchy-touchy ApplePay for my whiskey:
…And I don't know a soul who's not been battered
I don't have a friend who feels at ease
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
or driven to its knees
Back at the table, conversation has flagged. ‘So, how long before you move?’
‘Just agreeing a date for completion Andy, and we’ll be going.’
Just as Toby couldn’t ‘get a handle’ on why Andy wanted to go to Australia, he does mystification with me, ‘What do you want to go North for? Why not South, you’re a Londoner.’
‘And good luck affording a place there!’ I reply.
We lived some very important years in ‘The North’. Seeing that vague and conceptual motorway sign again in my mind’s eye makes me smile. ‘We have family there Toby…and…we like it.’
‘They won’t like you with your London accent and fancy ways!’
‘I think you’ve been watching too many sixties films. We had no problems when we lived there before.’
‘Well, I’m just sorry it’s coming to an end.’
‘You’ve got all your funny handshake mates Toby, and the Rotarians and God knows what other fraternities, clubs and cabals you belong to.’
‘I don’t do that stuff anymore!’
’Since when?’ I ask, genuinely surprised.
’Since he got passed over for some grandness or worshipfulness!’ Andy laughs, ‘Didn’t you tell him Toby?’
‘You know how he feels about all that! Why would I give him carte blanche to take the piss?’
‘It may not be my kind of thing Toby but I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed.’
I don't know a dream that's not been shattered
‘Disappointed! If only you knew how much…’ he stops himself, ’…anyway, forget all that stuff, this is no way to spend our last drink together!’
And we simultaneously, suddenly and falling silently wholly realise it will be. Things have changed.
90. Tales From The Sean Connery Appreciation Society: Never Say Never Again.
It’s all about timing. I'd just sat down to reward myself with a heavy-handed double of my Secret Santa Japanese whisky ("...exotic notes of orange, ginger, dried apricot, cinnamon, fudge, nuts & vanilla with a clean finish") when there’s a heavy-handed, unignorable hammering on the front door. Having already lost my equilibrium due to the stomach churn of unexpectedly having to rod our drains, a resurge of revulsion shudders me to shivers again; my scalp prickles, I’m ready to sort out the persistent arsehole trying to knock down our door.
‘There you are you old bastard!’ Toby turns to Andy, ‘Told you he wouldn’t answer the door unless I gave it some welly!’
Andy grins and holds up a bottle wrapped in pre-ripped Christmas paper, ‘Merry Christmas!’
‘We’ve brought you merriment, gifts and good news!’
‘Have you been boosted…done a lateral flow?’
‘What do you take us for? Of course!’
‘Are you OK to wait there half an hour while I check myself out?’
’Step back boy! We know you’re clean, Georgie’s been talking to Carole and Olga.’
I make way. Toby makes straight for the Japanese whisky, ‘You see this Andy? He’s still at it! What’s wrong with good old British whisky?’
‘If you can find some ‘British whisky’ Toby, I’ll treat you to a bottle or several.’
‘I have a witness! Now, open your presents…’
‘I haven’t got anything for you.’
‘It is better to give than receive’ Andy homilies.
‘Yeah. You can get us something later.’
‘Help yourself to Japanese whisky, you know where the glasses are’. I unwrap Toby’s present, ‘A Margaret Thatcher jigsaw puzzle! You shouldn’t have.’
‘I know! But I couldn’t help myself!’
‘I hope you spent a lot of money on it.’
‘I did, it’s for a good cause.’
‘Lost cause!’
‘Didn’t take you two long did it?’ Andy says as he hands me his present. The bottle sheds its not doing much of a job wrinkled wrapping in an instant.
’Scotch anyone?’
When I first saw them at the door, I felt a tweak of disappointment that the Christmas-New Year interregnum I so valued for solitude was to be ruled out. Now, seeing them sat in the room, taking space, laughing, talking, I’m grateful for their visit. Their good humour and beingness is shaking me out of...something…entry level misanthropy?
‘It’s good to see you, thanks for the gifts, thanks for the merriment. What’s the good news?’
Toby almost bursts waiting for Andy to speak. ‘We’re not moving to Australia anymore.’
I wait, unsure whether I should be showing sorry or glad.
‘Effing Covid has put us in limbo for two years. And we realised recently that we’d been putting life on hold, waiting for the big move. And time’s slipping away while we’re, sort of holding our breath…’
‘Good news eh?’ Toby’s chuckle hustles into the space for appreciating the resonance of Andy’s disappointment. I top up their glasses for something to do.
‘Well, aren’t you pleased Andy’s staying?’
‘I always like to see you and Andy. But Covid’s fucked us all over in one way or another, hasn’t it?’
‘We’re still here! Carpe diem and all that!’
I flashmuse that whenever the three of us get together, one of us always becomes a fulcrum, not in a physics way, a chemistry way, and I synapse onwards.
‘Back in the day, a woman I worked with - got along with, you know, rapport, gave me a book The Chymical Wedding. She told me it summed how she thought about her and me. I had no idea she gave me any thought outside of the work thing. Soon after she asked me not to read it, she felt embarrassed. Too late. I’d read. I was all frissoned up.’
Andy glazes, Toby astonishisises, ‘Are you even on this planet?’
‘No! I mean yes! I was just reflecting…you know…that thing about you never step in the same river twice.’
Toby slaps his thighs - hard, loud, laughs, ‘W.T.F. are you on about?!’
‘I agree with Toby. I don’t know what…’
‘Life! It throws stuff at us. The unexpected. Plans go to shit, ambitions are thwarted and then to keep you hacking away, moments of joy, tenderness, fire, light you up, put Spring in you again.’
They exchange looks then look at their whisky. It’s my resonance that needs space now.
’This is what comes of Japanese whisky!’
‘Get lost!’
‘I’m serious! This is us again, we’re the three amigos, we’re a team, we’re what d’you call it when the bits together are better than the bits when they’re not?’
’Synergy' Andy almost slurs.
‘That’s the one! We should have a theme tune…’
‘We have!’ I inspire, and whilst the inspiration is on me, I remind myself to email Toby The Observer article on Tory sleaze as a thank you for the jigsaw.
‘There you are you old bastard!’ Toby turns to Andy, ‘Told you he wouldn’t answer the door unless I gave it some welly!’
Andy grins and holds up a bottle wrapped in pre-ripped Christmas paper, ‘Merry Christmas!’
‘We’ve brought you merriment, gifts and good news!’
‘Have you been boosted…done a lateral flow?’
‘What do you take us for? Of course!’
‘Are you OK to wait there half an hour while I check myself out?’
’Step back boy! We know you’re clean, Georgie’s been talking to Carole and Olga.’
I make way. Toby makes straight for the Japanese whisky, ‘You see this Andy? He’s still at it! What’s wrong with good old British whisky?’
‘If you can find some ‘British whisky’ Toby, I’ll treat you to a bottle or several.’
‘I have a witness! Now, open your presents…’
‘I haven’t got anything for you.’
‘It is better to give than receive’ Andy homilies.
‘Yeah. You can get us something later.’
‘Help yourself to Japanese whisky, you know where the glasses are’. I unwrap Toby’s present, ‘A Margaret Thatcher jigsaw puzzle! You shouldn’t have.’
‘I know! But I couldn’t help myself!’
‘I hope you spent a lot of money on it.’
‘I did, it’s for a good cause.’
‘Lost cause!’
‘Didn’t take you two long did it?’ Andy says as he hands me his present. The bottle sheds its not doing much of a job wrinkled wrapping in an instant.
’Scotch anyone?’
When I first saw them at the door, I felt a tweak of disappointment that the Christmas-New Year interregnum I so valued for solitude was to be ruled out. Now, seeing them sat in the room, taking space, laughing, talking, I’m grateful for their visit. Their good humour and beingness is shaking me out of...something…entry level misanthropy?
‘It’s good to see you, thanks for the gifts, thanks for the merriment. What’s the good news?’
Toby almost bursts waiting for Andy to speak. ‘We’re not moving to Australia anymore.’
I wait, unsure whether I should be showing sorry or glad.
‘Effing Covid has put us in limbo for two years. And we realised recently that we’d been putting life on hold, waiting for the big move. And time’s slipping away while we’re, sort of holding our breath…’
‘Good news eh?’ Toby’s chuckle hustles into the space for appreciating the resonance of Andy’s disappointment. I top up their glasses for something to do.
‘Well, aren’t you pleased Andy’s staying?’
‘I always like to see you and Andy. But Covid’s fucked us all over in one way or another, hasn’t it?’
‘We’re still here! Carpe diem and all that!’
I flashmuse that whenever the three of us get together, one of us always becomes a fulcrum, not in a physics way, a chemistry way, and I synapse onwards.
‘Back in the day, a woman I worked with - got along with, you know, rapport, gave me a book The Chymical Wedding. She told me it summed how she thought about her and me. I had no idea she gave me any thought outside of the work thing. Soon after she asked me not to read it, she felt embarrassed. Too late. I’d read. I was all frissoned up.’
Andy glazes, Toby astonishisises, ‘Are you even on this planet?’
‘No! I mean yes! I was just reflecting…you know…that thing about you never step in the same river twice.’
Toby slaps his thighs - hard, loud, laughs, ‘W.T.F. are you on about?!’
‘I agree with Toby. I don’t know what…’
‘Life! It throws stuff at us. The unexpected. Plans go to shit, ambitions are thwarted and then to keep you hacking away, moments of joy, tenderness, fire, light you up, put Spring in you again.’
They exchange looks then look at their whisky. It’s my resonance that needs space now.
’This is what comes of Japanese whisky!’
‘Get lost!’
‘I’m serious! This is us again, we’re the three amigos, we’re a team, we’re what d’you call it when the bits together are better than the bits when they’re not?’
’Synergy' Andy almost slurs.
‘That’s the one! We should have a theme tune…’
‘We have!’ I inspire, and whilst the inspiration is on me, I remind myself to email Toby The Observer article on Tory sleaze as a thank you for the jigsaw.
91. Getting Ready
‘What do you think of these earrings?…Are you OK?’
Georgie has found me teetered on the edge of a chasm cracked into the day by Víkingur Ólafsson playing Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit. And though I feel on the edge of tears too, it’s not melancholy or regret, heartache or loss, it’s the sudden, enfolding deeps of such utter, confounding beauty that all I can do is ache and wait for the fall.
Georgie knows me like this, joins me sometimes. But if our moments aren’t timed to stream, the confluence can get turbulent - she’s irritated by my lack of getting ready. I roll one and step outside for a blast, an excuse really, to avert reacting. After what seems an age of clouds, the sky is fluxed with stars, Orion is high and sharp, the air from the north crisp and edged. I feel immersed and right, this is where I fit, and I decide that tonight I’ll suit up, I’ll even wear a shirt and tie.
On goes the cobalt blue suit, black shirt and that deep pea green tie with the zig zag black on it. Ah yes! Don’t wear brown shoes with a blue suit, brown suede Chelsea boots then. I’m holding a beret in one hand and pork pie hat in the other when Georgie reappears. It’s not part of our tacit marriage contract for me to outshine Georgie but the stars have put shimmer in me.
‘You look nice!’ she says with a hint of what are you up to?
‘Beret or hat?’ I ask.
‘The beret, I think’ and on goes the black beret that I fiddle into what I consider a rakish set in front of the mirror. Is it wrong to pay this much attention to appearance at my age? Balls to that. I remind myself that I don’t care what other people think, which is probably more on message at my age anyway. Having seen me putting in an effort, Georgie vanishes upstairs again and re-emerges with the bold tartan skirt I really like on her, zappy mustard colour tights and artfully arranged zinging silk scarf. There’s a quirky brooch on a subtle Arran - I’ve always been able to osmosis more funk into Georgie. We’re ready for stepping out!
Before we do, I pour us a couple of generous whiskies from that other bottle of Japanese (A signature balance of malt and grain that creates a fresh, vivid whisky, with crisp flavours of green apple, grapefruit and honey) and retrovigorate us with Barry White’s ‘Oh What a Night for Dancing’. Georgie mockmelts at the way I try to basso ‘You're my million dollar baby!’ and for a smooched up desirous moment I think it’s going to be a faff having to get our clothes off and on again but she needs to reapply her wondrously pink lipstick, ‘Do you think they’ll have dance music at Toby and Carole’s?’
Having cut from Bach to Barry White, I’m not in the mood for anything that doesn’t move feet, ‘We’ll take some.’
‘Does Toby do wireless?’
‘We’ll take a speaker in case - and one of those little leads - aux or what?’
***
‘Have I got any dance music!?’ Toby astounds, ‘I’m the King of dance music! A dance supremo! I seduced Carole with my moves! Tell him Carole…’
‘They weren’t dance moves!’ then an aside to Olga we were all meant to hear, ‘He was like a bloody octopus!’
‘Andy tried seducing me with flowers.’ Olga says.
‘It worked didn’t it?’
‘Well, more accurately, with shrubs…’
‘I bred fuchsias for a living!’
‘My flat was full of them - every time he came round…’
‘I thought you liked them!’
‘…every time he came round, plant in one hand, doing his gaze into my eyes thing, “Here’s a rare beauty!” - fell for it in the end.’
’So how did you seduce Georgie then?’ Toby wants to know.
‘Actually, I seduced him’ Georgie giggles, ‘On The River Boat Shuffle‘
‘The what!?’
I explain. ‘A disco booze party. On a boat. From Westminster Pier to Teddington Lock and back. By the time we got back to move on to the house party I was putty.’
‘So you seduced him…typical!’ Toby shakes his head and laughs at me, ‘Do you ever put effort into anything?
‘Not when I don’t need to! What’s happening with the music then, el supremo?’
And so it begins. Fuchsia Andy Wallflowers, dancing is more terror than joy for him and Olga gives up trying to entice him. Carole cautions around Toby as he dances with tight, technical fizz, we can tell he’s watched plenty of ‘Disco Movies’. I can’t imagine using that much energy - I have to pace myself. Besides I’m unstructured and wobblier than I used to be and need plenty of improv room. Georgie is just as sexy as she was on The River Boat Shuffle. What can you do? Just ache and fall. What a night for dancing.
Georgie has found me teetered on the edge of a chasm cracked into the day by Víkingur Ólafsson playing Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit. And though I feel on the edge of tears too, it’s not melancholy or regret, heartache or loss, it’s the sudden, enfolding deeps of such utter, confounding beauty that all I can do is ache and wait for the fall.
Georgie knows me like this, joins me sometimes. But if our moments aren’t timed to stream, the confluence can get turbulent - she’s irritated by my lack of getting ready. I roll one and step outside for a blast, an excuse really, to avert reacting. After what seems an age of clouds, the sky is fluxed with stars, Orion is high and sharp, the air from the north crisp and edged. I feel immersed and right, this is where I fit, and I decide that tonight I’ll suit up, I’ll even wear a shirt and tie.
On goes the cobalt blue suit, black shirt and that deep pea green tie with the zig zag black on it. Ah yes! Don’t wear brown shoes with a blue suit, brown suede Chelsea boots then. I’m holding a beret in one hand and pork pie hat in the other when Georgie reappears. It’s not part of our tacit marriage contract for me to outshine Georgie but the stars have put shimmer in me.
‘You look nice!’ she says with a hint of what are you up to?
‘Beret or hat?’ I ask.
‘The beret, I think’ and on goes the black beret that I fiddle into what I consider a rakish set in front of the mirror. Is it wrong to pay this much attention to appearance at my age? Balls to that. I remind myself that I don’t care what other people think, which is probably more on message at my age anyway. Having seen me putting in an effort, Georgie vanishes upstairs again and re-emerges with the bold tartan skirt I really like on her, zappy mustard colour tights and artfully arranged zinging silk scarf. There’s a quirky brooch on a subtle Arran - I’ve always been able to osmosis more funk into Georgie. We’re ready for stepping out!
Before we do, I pour us a couple of generous whiskies from that other bottle of Japanese (A signature balance of malt and grain that creates a fresh, vivid whisky, with crisp flavours of green apple, grapefruit and honey) and retrovigorate us with Barry White’s ‘Oh What a Night for Dancing’. Georgie mockmelts at the way I try to basso ‘You're my million dollar baby!’ and for a smooched up desirous moment I think it’s going to be a faff having to get our clothes off and on again but she needs to reapply her wondrously pink lipstick, ‘Do you think they’ll have dance music at Toby and Carole’s?’
Having cut from Bach to Barry White, I’m not in the mood for anything that doesn’t move feet, ‘We’ll take some.’
‘Does Toby do wireless?’
‘We’ll take a speaker in case - and one of those little leads - aux or what?’
***
‘Have I got any dance music!?’ Toby astounds, ‘I’m the King of dance music! A dance supremo! I seduced Carole with my moves! Tell him Carole…’
‘They weren’t dance moves!’ then an aside to Olga we were all meant to hear, ‘He was like a bloody octopus!’
‘Andy tried seducing me with flowers.’ Olga says.
‘It worked didn’t it?’
‘Well, more accurately, with shrubs…’
‘I bred fuchsias for a living!’
‘My flat was full of them - every time he came round…’
‘I thought you liked them!’
‘…every time he came round, plant in one hand, doing his gaze into my eyes thing, “Here’s a rare beauty!” - fell for it in the end.’
’So how did you seduce Georgie then?’ Toby wants to know.
‘Actually, I seduced him’ Georgie giggles, ‘On The River Boat Shuffle‘
‘The what!?’
I explain. ‘A disco booze party. On a boat. From Westminster Pier to Teddington Lock and back. By the time we got back to move on to the house party I was putty.’
‘So you seduced him…typical!’ Toby shakes his head and laughs at me, ‘Do you ever put effort into anything?
‘Not when I don’t need to! What’s happening with the music then, el supremo?’
And so it begins. Fuchsia Andy Wallflowers, dancing is more terror than joy for him and Olga gives up trying to entice him. Carole cautions around Toby as he dances with tight, technical fizz, we can tell he’s watched plenty of ‘Disco Movies’. I can’t imagine using that much energy - I have to pace myself. Besides I’m unstructured and wobblier than I used to be and need plenty of improv room. Georgie is just as sexy as she was on The River Boat Shuffle. What can you do? Just ache and fall. What a night for dancing.
92. Same Old, Different Old
It was a faff but with Carole’s help I got Dave and Ansel Collins streaming on Toby’s stereo. He didn’t show any recognition of the reference or appreciation for Carole and me skanking in the kitchen, still less that we were having a laugh at something he wasn’t getting. Rock bottom less my delivery of ‘You look a proper country gent!’
He’s wearing a long tweed waistcoat with deep pockets, breeks, Tattersall shirt, tie with pheasants on it, a pair of massively Argylled socks and tan brogue boots that look as if they’ll need more years than any of us have left to break in.
‘You can laugh! But you’re going to look a twat in Lycra when you get your bike!’
‘I’m getting an electric bike with no crossbar Toby, not one of those drop handlebars, skinny-wheeled heart attack jobs! The nearest to Lycra I’ll get will be thermals when it gets parky.’
Andy enters the kitchen carrying a small, shiny garden spade, ‘What’s this doing in the hall?’
‘Oh that’s mine’ Carole says. ‘But Toby’s appropriated it.’
‘Borrowed it!’
’So what’s it doing in the hall?’
‘He’s practicing with it until he gets his shotgun.’
Andy puts a friendly arm round Toby’s shoulders, ’Sorry to be the one to tell you Toby, but you’re not going to kill anything with this.’
‘He’ll be safer though.’ I add.
‘Clay pigeons Andy! They’re dead already.’
’So why aren’t you wearing a tie with clay pigeons on it?’
‘Don’t make it worse!’ Carole says, ‘He’s been dressed like that since he got the gear and standing in front of the hall mirror with my garden spade, pretending it’s a shotgun and shouting ‘Pull! - Boom! Boom!’
‘Can’t go into it without the right mindset Carole.’
‘Well I hope you’re going to get changed before we go to the pub.’
‘Of course Andy.’
We know a Toby sulk when we see it. He slow miffs off in silence save for the creaking of his boots.
‘I’d better put his gun back.’
When Andy and Toby surprise visited me over Christmas and depleted the contents of what passes for my drinks cabinet, we got round to talks of time, age and same old samery. With the unfettered optimism of well enough to drink, we agreed a mutual challenge to do something different in 2022 and swore to check each other out to make sure we didn’t let it slip. Biking for me, shotgunnery for Toby and a decision to come from Andy. Toby and me have agreed to press him as soon as the first round’s on the table.
Toby’s concession to changing is moleskin trousers instead of breeks and a (different) square set tweed cap. It seems he’s giving his hunting and shooting look a serious run, he must have spent a small fortune already. It’s a ten minute walk to the Blue Bell and less than five in we can tell Toby’s boots are killing him, but he emphatically declines our insincere offer to carry him.
‘Seems like I’m the only one to take our agreement seriously.’ Toby says, wiping beer froth from his moustache.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where’s your bike then?’
‘On order.’
‘On order! You can get a bike easily, I can take you up to that place on the industrial estate if you like. I can take you tomorrow.’
‘I don’t like their bikes. No style. My bike’s coming from Belgium.’
‘No style! Belgium! Honestly, as a friend, do you realise how poncey you come across at times?’
‘As a friend Toby, I think it’s best not to talk about other people being poncey when you’re sat in a pub dressed like that.’
‘This is all good, British tailoring! I’m proud to wear it! Belgium!’
‘Come on now’ Andy calms, ‘Let’s drink to our agreement, we’re different types, but we’ll get there.’
When he sees Toby and me turn our enquiring gazes on him, he knows what’s coming.
’So what are you planning to do Andy?’ I polite.
He looks into his beer, and seeming to find certitude there says, ‘I’m going to learn to play a musical instrument.’
I’m impressed, kind of envious that I know he’ll do it and that I’ve tried and didn’t have the kind of measured persistence I know he has. As I’m saying ‘Here’s to that’ Toby asks ‘Which instrument?’
Andy peers deeper into his beer, it looks like he knows what’s coming when he says ‘Ukulele.’
He did know. Toby loudly exclaims ’Ukulele! Look at those hands! They’re like bunches of bananas! Have you thought bongos might be better?’ and reels off into hearty laughter.
Andy drains his glass, stands and gathers ours, ‘As a friend Toby, do you realise what a prat you are sometimes?’
We do silent until Andy returns with drinks, ‘Here’s yours, hope it’s up to scratch for the Lord of the Manor.’
‘Thank you Tiny Tim. What about Lance Armstrong there?’
‘Lance Armstrong?’
Toby points at me with his pint, ‘Cyclist. Drugs.’
‘Boom! Boom!’ I say. This could have gone better. Drinking and promises. Bad mix.
93. Every path has its puddle
Andy rang me to say he’s waiting on delivery of a lateral flow test before he ventures out again but that Toby might need cheering up as there’s something SNAFU with his firearm certificate application that means there’s going to be at the very least a delay.
‘Very least? You mean he might not get one at all?’
‘That’s what Olga told me Carole told her. But you know Toby, all he said to me was there was a slight delay.’
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t rung me.’
‘He’s not going to offer you an opportunity on a plate to take the piss is he?’
‘Do I?’
‘I did.’
‘He should’ve rung me.’
‘I’m gentler.’
‘Does that make me worse or better?’
‘Well, you do give him some stick.’
I thought better of pointing out that if someone dishes it out they should be prepared to take it, then thought of something else.
So I spent the next morning giving some TLC to a hawthorn walking stick I picked up in a charity shop before I had my knee replacement. On checking the proper height it should be - to the wristbone - I discovered it was too short for me. Shame. It’s a well used stick with a lovely patina. Before I bought it, I stood turning it in my hands, feeling its interrupted smoothness, wondering about its previous owner, the miles travelled, the terrain, and how much of what has been useful or precious to us ends up house-cleared, in charity shops. Toby is a very practical, organised guy, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’, if the stick needs shortening, he’ll have a saw for the job. I remember to take a rubber ferrule from the kitchen drawer and pick up a bottle of ’On Offer!’ Talisker on the way.
It looks like it belongs to a bigger door on a grander house but I always like knocking on his front door with its ornate dolphin knocker, it booms. Carole greets me, ‘He’s in the conservatory…’
As I follow her through an aromatic drift from something hearty cooking in the kitchen, I smile at seeing Toby’s new brogue boots in the hallway, standing ram-stuffed stiff with newspaper. He’s stretched out on a fat-padded recliner that dangles a remote control, reading The Telegraph, illuminated by one of those incessantly leafleted lights not for frivolous readers.
‘I come bearing gifts!’
‘That probably makes you a Greek.’
I brandish the Talisker, ‘A libation’s in order then.’
‘That’s my kind of gift!’ The armchair whines and whirrs itself smaller, Toby leaves then returns with two heavy, cut crystal tumblers.
‘Carole not having one?’
He leaves to get another, pours. I encourage generosity.
’Cheers! So what’s with the stick? Knee playing up?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘Me?’
‘I heard about the gun thing and thought about all those huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ clothes you’ve bought…’
‘Ah! We have a mole!’
‘It’ll be grateful you can’t shoot it.’
‘Yet!’
‘I thought you could cut a country dash with this walking stick, put some swagger into rambles - it’ll go well with your get up.’
He eyes me suspiciously as I hand him the stick, ask him to stand up and hold it by his side. It needs just over an inch taken off. Carole joins us for a refill, ‘That’s a nice walking stick, are you thinking of getting one Toby?’
‘I’ve already got one - a gift!’ his grin warms me as much as the whisky.
I persuade him to go to his workshop before we have any more to drink and with a fine toothed little saw from his peg board display of tools, we trim.
As he practices swagger up and down the hallway he says ‘Thanks for this, spot on. I thought you might have come here to take the piss about the ‘gun thing’…’
‘I wouldn’t take ‘gun things’ lightly Toby. But I’ve just realised we should have measured the stick with you wearing those boots…it might even be too short now.’
‘Very least? You mean he might not get one at all?’
‘That’s what Olga told me Carole told her. But you know Toby, all he said to me was there was a slight delay.’
‘I’m surprised he hasn’t rung me.’
‘He’s not going to offer you an opportunity on a plate to take the piss is he?’
‘Do I?’
‘I did.’
‘He should’ve rung me.’
‘I’m gentler.’
‘Does that make me worse or better?’
‘Well, you do give him some stick.’
I thought better of pointing out that if someone dishes it out they should be prepared to take it, then thought of something else.
So I spent the next morning giving some TLC to a hawthorn walking stick I picked up in a charity shop before I had my knee replacement. On checking the proper height it should be - to the wristbone - I discovered it was too short for me. Shame. It’s a well used stick with a lovely patina. Before I bought it, I stood turning it in my hands, feeling its interrupted smoothness, wondering about its previous owner, the miles travelled, the terrain, and how much of what has been useful or precious to us ends up house-cleared, in charity shops. Toby is a very practical, organised guy, ‘A place for everything and everything in its place’, if the stick needs shortening, he’ll have a saw for the job. I remember to take a rubber ferrule from the kitchen drawer and pick up a bottle of ’On Offer!’ Talisker on the way.
It looks like it belongs to a bigger door on a grander house but I always like knocking on his front door with its ornate dolphin knocker, it booms. Carole greets me, ‘He’s in the conservatory…’
As I follow her through an aromatic drift from something hearty cooking in the kitchen, I smile at seeing Toby’s new brogue boots in the hallway, standing ram-stuffed stiff with newspaper. He’s stretched out on a fat-padded recliner that dangles a remote control, reading The Telegraph, illuminated by one of those incessantly leafleted lights not for frivolous readers.
‘I come bearing gifts!’
‘That probably makes you a Greek.’
I brandish the Talisker, ‘A libation’s in order then.’
‘That’s my kind of gift!’ The armchair whines and whirrs itself smaller, Toby leaves then returns with two heavy, cut crystal tumblers.
‘Carole not having one?’
He leaves to get another, pours. I encourage generosity.
’Cheers! So what’s with the stick? Knee playing up?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘Me?’
‘I heard about the gun thing and thought about all those huntin’ shootin’ and fishin’ clothes you’ve bought…’
‘Ah! We have a mole!’
‘It’ll be grateful you can’t shoot it.’
‘Yet!’
‘I thought you could cut a country dash with this walking stick, put some swagger into rambles - it’ll go well with your get up.’
He eyes me suspiciously as I hand him the stick, ask him to stand up and hold it by his side. It needs just over an inch taken off. Carole joins us for a refill, ‘That’s a nice walking stick, are you thinking of getting one Toby?’
‘I’ve already got one - a gift!’ his grin warms me as much as the whisky.
I persuade him to go to his workshop before we have any more to drink and with a fine toothed little saw from his peg board display of tools, we trim.
As he practices swagger up and down the hallway he says ‘Thanks for this, spot on. I thought you might have come here to take the piss about the ‘gun thing’…’
‘I wouldn’t take ‘gun things’ lightly Toby. But I’ve just realised we should have measured the stick with you wearing those boots…it might even be too short now.’
94. Practically Stylish
We’re at The Blue Bell, ostensibly to talk about the re-opening of The Dun Cow but we’ve been talking about boozers and boozing generally.
‘It’s got bad Andy.’
‘What’s got bad?’ Toby asks, setting drinks on the table.
‘Last night I spilled some of my White Russian and I had a thunderbolt moment - why am I licking up spilled drink from the kitchen worktop? And I’m getting a strabismus close up of my tongue and lips lapping that stuff up and I think, look at you! What’s happened to you?’
‘My theory is you were pissed.’
‘Stoned too as it happens Andy, but that doesn’t change the moment…it was a Damascene moment…a fork in the road.’
‘What, are you going abstainer?’
‘I was thinking of the other fork. The stop spilling stuff and being clumsy one - do something physical about all this arthritis - Yoga, Pilates or something.
‘I’ve heard Tai Chi is good.’
‘My feet are fucked, Andy. I took some Tai Chi lessons, you know how it looks - gentle elegant, deep. But I kept falling over! My feet are getting so painful, I’ve even started looking at shoes with velcro fasteners!’
‘So?’
‘So that’s a bad moment for me.’
‘Why?’
‘I like laces, I like gussets. Velcro’s like you’ve given up.’
Toby takes over, wags a finger at me, ‘You’re problem is you don’t know how to grow old gracefully.’
‘WTF is graceful about velcro Toby?’
‘It’s practical.’
‘There you go!’
‘There you go what?’
‘I’m at the age of practical now! People’ll be making way for me on the pavement soon!’
‘Some of us attained that age waaaay back.’
‘I don’t like being forced into it, Toby.’
‘No-one’s forcing you! It’s getting older.’
‘The force is subtle, relentless, everywhere. A mate of mine who was good at maths told me just after taking O-levels that he was going to study pure and applied maths as he wanted to be an actuary.’
‘Good job!’
‘He was sixteen! That wasn’t him talking, it was someone who’d been stuffing his head with practical!’
‘They need guidance, kids don’t know what they want!’
‘I did!’
‘Which was…?’
‘To make my own mistakes for one…’
‘Brilliant! Kids don’t know what’s in their best interests - you’re a dad, did you let your daughters do whatever?’
‘Pretty much, I wanted them to follow their hearts, not mine…and have their own minds too.’
‘Don’t try being all profound with me! Kids need to be channeled. I bet your actuary mate is doing fine.’
‘Hope so. I bumped into him…must be…late teens? He didn’t go to university as planned - screwed up his maths A-levels and was working for Zetters Pools. Had a load of stitches in his head from being bottled in a pub, where he was sat minding his own business with his pregnant girlfriend. He didn’t need to tell me he wasn’t an actuary.’
‘Velcro’s great Andy, useful - but for shoes? It’s a profoundly unedifying prospect, like those elasticated waist trousers.’
Toby points out and suggests the guest ale for the next round, and tugs his jumper south with his other hand.
‘We’ll try that one then…if my rubbish footwear can get me to the bar.’ Andy plonks an all white, velcroed up, size 15 foot in my lap. Smiles. ‘What’s wrong with these?’
I think his feet look like whitewashed coracles, but I stay polite, ’Andy, I don’t know where to begin.’
‘At the end of the day, who cares what you look like? At our age, comfort is King.’
Toby actually ‘hear-hears’. I turn to him and ask about all the country squire gear he bought to go shooting, ‘Comfortable?’
‘Practical.’
‘So you’d be happy to go shooting wearing Velcro boots instead of those leather brogue ones that kill you?’
’They’ll be practical - in time.’
‘See? There’s practical and there’s the look - as proved by Toby. I don’t mind some impractical in exchange for some style - I will not give in…’
’You will.’
‘…easily.’
‘You're the kind of bloke who ends up looking ridiculous trying to carry off the latest fashion.’
I lean back, flash ponce style, ‘I think you’re confusing fashion for style, Toby.’
He waves me away, ‘What’s the difference?’
They look at me blankly as I tap my head, ’Style is up here.’
Andy gets up for more drinks, ‘Right where practical lives.’
‘It’s got bad Andy.’
‘What’s got bad?’ Toby asks, setting drinks on the table.
‘Last night I spilled some of my White Russian and I had a thunderbolt moment - why am I licking up spilled drink from the kitchen worktop? And I’m getting a strabismus close up of my tongue and lips lapping that stuff up and I think, look at you! What’s happened to you?’
‘My theory is you were pissed.’
‘Stoned too as it happens Andy, but that doesn’t change the moment…it was a Damascene moment…a fork in the road.’
‘What, are you going abstainer?’
‘I was thinking of the other fork. The stop spilling stuff and being clumsy one - do something physical about all this arthritis - Yoga, Pilates or something.
‘I’ve heard Tai Chi is good.’
‘My feet are fucked, Andy. I took some Tai Chi lessons, you know how it looks - gentle elegant, deep. But I kept falling over! My feet are getting so painful, I’ve even started looking at shoes with velcro fasteners!’
‘So?’
‘So that’s a bad moment for me.’
‘Why?’
‘I like laces, I like gussets. Velcro’s like you’ve given up.’
Toby takes over, wags a finger at me, ‘You’re problem is you don’t know how to grow old gracefully.’
‘WTF is graceful about velcro Toby?’
‘It’s practical.’
‘There you go!’
‘There you go what?’
‘I’m at the age of practical now! People’ll be making way for me on the pavement soon!’
‘Some of us attained that age waaaay back.’
‘I don’t like being forced into it, Toby.’
‘No-one’s forcing you! It’s getting older.’
‘The force is subtle, relentless, everywhere. A mate of mine who was good at maths told me just after taking O-levels that he was going to study pure and applied maths as he wanted to be an actuary.’
‘Good job!’
‘He was sixteen! That wasn’t him talking, it was someone who’d been stuffing his head with practical!’
‘They need guidance, kids don’t know what they want!’
‘I did!’
‘Which was…?’
‘To make my own mistakes for one…’
‘Brilliant! Kids don’t know what’s in their best interests - you’re a dad, did you let your daughters do whatever?’
‘Pretty much, I wanted them to follow their hearts, not mine…and have their own minds too.’
‘Don’t try being all profound with me! Kids need to be channeled. I bet your actuary mate is doing fine.’
‘Hope so. I bumped into him…must be…late teens? He didn’t go to university as planned - screwed up his maths A-levels and was working for Zetters Pools. Had a load of stitches in his head from being bottled in a pub, where he was sat minding his own business with his pregnant girlfriend. He didn’t need to tell me he wasn’t an actuary.’
- brief and not overly deep silence -
‘Velcro’s great Andy, useful - but for shoes? It’s a profoundly unedifying prospect, like those elasticated waist trousers.’
Toby points out and suggests the guest ale for the next round, and tugs his jumper south with his other hand.
‘We’ll try that one then…if my rubbish footwear can get me to the bar.’ Andy plonks an all white, velcroed up, size 15 foot in my lap. Smiles. ‘What’s wrong with these?’
I think his feet look like whitewashed coracles, but I stay polite, ’Andy, I don’t know where to begin.’
‘At the end of the day, who cares what you look like? At our age, comfort is King.’
Toby actually ‘hear-hears’. I turn to him and ask about all the country squire gear he bought to go shooting, ‘Comfortable?’
‘Practical.’
‘So you’d be happy to go shooting wearing Velcro boots instead of those leather brogue ones that kill you?’
’They’ll be practical - in time.’
‘See? There’s practical and there’s the look - as proved by Toby. I don’t mind some impractical in exchange for some style - I will not give in…’
’You will.’
‘…easily.’
‘You're the kind of bloke who ends up looking ridiculous trying to carry off the latest fashion.’
I lean back, flash ponce style, ‘I think you’re confusing fashion for style, Toby.’
He waves me away, ‘What’s the difference?’
They look at me blankly as I tap my head, ’Style is up here.’
Andy gets up for more drinks, ‘Right where practical lives.’
95. The Ambassadors
The first thing I notice when I enter the Blue Bell is that Toby’s favourite landlady, Morwen, is back, looking glam. Andy and Toby wave to me. I get my pint and join them. It’s been a while.
’So Morwen’s back.’ I smile at Andy.
He raises his eyebrows, tacits a look at Toby and shakes his head as if to clear it.
‘Yes’ Toby beams ‘and without her idiot husband.’
Toby looks as if he’s been polished and starched. ‘Does that explain your extra scrubbed and spruced appearance?’
‘I like to be well-groomed.’
‘Anyway how do you know he’s an idiot?’
‘I’m a good judge of people. He was a microwave pie kind of bloke, he was holding her back, Morwen’s the one with imagination - they do proper meals here now. Have you seen the menu? Some mouthwatering stuff!’
‘Like what? Welsh lilt with cleavage topping?’
Andy likes this. ‘Good to see you getting out.’
‘Good to be out Andy.’
‘How’s things?’
I do the hand wobble gesture for ‘iffy’.
‘What’s up?’
’It’s gone all frosty at home.’
‘Doesn’t sound like Georgie.’
Half a pint in and my ale’s become truth juice. ‘She bought a BNWT designer khaki shirt top on eBay “for a steal” and wanted my honest opinion on what it looked like on her. I said it made her look like Rosa Klebb.’
‘Bet that went down well.’
‘She wanted my honest opinion!’
‘Right! How long have you lived together?’
‘Long enough to be able to give an honest opinion when I’m asked for one.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So it seems. I always knew my granddad was talking crap when he said “Honesty is the best policy”.’
Toby is a high performer at rubbing people up the wrong way, toe treading and take it or leave it opinion that he bundles as ‘straight talking’. So I’m not surprised by ‘Do you think you might have omitted the Rosa Klebb bit?’
‘It just popped into my head! Then the shutters came down. And then she has a go at Bob Gnarly.’
‘Who…?’
I take a breath. ‘Bob’s the name I gave the garden gnome I just bought at auction. A Helen Young gnome.’
‘Who…?’
‘Sculptor or something. Signed. Anyway I liked it, lying back with its shades on, sunbathing style. Youngest daughter thinks it looks like a black guy - gnome - so Bob Gnarly.’
‘So why’s Georgie having a go at Bob?’
‘Yeah, it’s not his fault you insulted her.’ Toby relishes.
‘It had epaulettes!’
‘It could have had medals on it but that doesn’t mean you should blab straight out like that.’
‘He’s right.’
’So what are you saying? I should only ever say what people want to hear?’
They exchange an ‘after you’ look. Toby leans forward, smiles indulgently and emphasises each word by gently placing his fingertips on the table, ‘Tact and diplomacy’ then after my look of amazement, ’Something you seem to be useless at.’
Andy senses I might be about to say something I’ll regret (again), ‘Have you got names for your other garden ornaments then?’
‘What? No - well I have a flower pot called George.’
‘George?’
‘George Stubbs.’
‘Who…?’
‘For butts when I’m in a rolling phase.’
Toby snorts. ’Still doing that then?’ Quaffs.
I point at his pint, ‘As Danny the dealer said, “Why trust one drug more than another?” ‘
‘Who…?’
‘Who? Who? Who? What are you, an owl now?’
Andy blanks his face, ‘Maybe Toby’s right about the tact and diplomacy thing.’
‘Sorry Andy. But Toby…’
Toby tenses, ‘Toby what?’
I’ve got them both bristling now. I wonder whether Georgie has debristled yet.
‘Look, I can do that but I’m talking about my wife here! I promised her way back that I would never bullshit her. Is that how you do it? All “yeah it’s great lovely” when you’re really thinking NO!’
Toby has worked up some smug now, ‘What I’m talking about is the art of making NO! into something notno.’
’Notno? What’s that then - yes?’
’No! As in - “I’m not sure about that darling”…’ Toby continues over my laughter, ‘…thus, a dialogue is opened…’
‘What’s with this “thus” stuff? We’re not QED’ing here.’
‘Wrong! I’ve proved it! We always do the how do I look thing for each other.’
’Tonight?’
Toby nods.
‘Maybe Carole is overdoing the tact and diplomacy! My round. Can I get you anything to eat, Toby?’
It’s gone all frosty at the Blue Bell.
’So Morwen’s back.’ I smile at Andy.
He raises his eyebrows, tacits a look at Toby and shakes his head as if to clear it.
‘Yes’ Toby beams ‘and without her idiot husband.’
Toby looks as if he’s been polished and starched. ‘Does that explain your extra scrubbed and spruced appearance?’
‘I like to be well-groomed.’
‘Anyway how do you know he’s an idiot?’
‘I’m a good judge of people. He was a microwave pie kind of bloke, he was holding her back, Morwen’s the one with imagination - they do proper meals here now. Have you seen the menu? Some mouthwatering stuff!’
‘Like what? Welsh lilt with cleavage topping?’
Andy likes this. ‘Good to see you getting out.’
‘Good to be out Andy.’
‘How’s things?’
I do the hand wobble gesture for ‘iffy’.
‘What’s up?’
’It’s gone all frosty at home.’
‘Doesn’t sound like Georgie.’
Half a pint in and my ale’s become truth juice. ‘She bought a BNWT designer khaki shirt top on eBay “for a steal” and wanted my honest opinion on what it looked like on her. I said it made her look like Rosa Klebb.’
‘Bet that went down well.’
‘She wanted my honest opinion!’
‘Right! How long have you lived together?’
‘Long enough to be able to give an honest opinion when I’m asked for one.’
‘Apparently not.’
‘So it seems. I always knew my granddad was talking crap when he said “Honesty is the best policy”.’
Toby is a high performer at rubbing people up the wrong way, toe treading and take it or leave it opinion that he bundles as ‘straight talking’. So I’m not surprised by ‘Do you think you might have omitted the Rosa Klebb bit?’
‘It just popped into my head! Then the shutters came down. And then she has a go at Bob Gnarly.’
‘Who…?’
I take a breath. ‘Bob’s the name I gave the garden gnome I just bought at auction. A Helen Young gnome.’
‘Who…?’
‘Sculptor or something. Signed. Anyway I liked it, lying back with its shades on, sunbathing style. Youngest daughter thinks it looks like a black guy - gnome - so Bob Gnarly.’
‘So why’s Georgie having a go at Bob?’
‘Yeah, it’s not his fault you insulted her.’ Toby relishes.
‘It had epaulettes!’
‘It could have had medals on it but that doesn’t mean you should blab straight out like that.’
‘He’s right.’
’So what are you saying? I should only ever say what people want to hear?’
They exchange an ‘after you’ look. Toby leans forward, smiles indulgently and emphasises each word by gently placing his fingertips on the table, ‘Tact and diplomacy’ then after my look of amazement, ’Something you seem to be useless at.’
Andy senses I might be about to say something I’ll regret (again), ‘Have you got names for your other garden ornaments then?’
‘What? No - well I have a flower pot called George.’
‘George?’
‘George Stubbs.’
‘Who…?’
‘For butts when I’m in a rolling phase.’
Toby snorts. ’Still doing that then?’ Quaffs.
I point at his pint, ‘As Danny the dealer said, “Why trust one drug more than another?” ‘
‘Who…?’
‘Who? Who? Who? What are you, an owl now?’
Andy blanks his face, ‘Maybe Toby’s right about the tact and diplomacy thing.’
‘Sorry Andy. But Toby…’
Toby tenses, ‘Toby what?’
I’ve got them both bristling now. I wonder whether Georgie has debristled yet.
‘Look, I can do that but I’m talking about my wife here! I promised her way back that I would never bullshit her. Is that how you do it? All “yeah it’s great lovely” when you’re really thinking NO!’
Toby has worked up some smug now, ‘What I’m talking about is the art of making NO! into something notno.’
’Notno? What’s that then - yes?’
’No! As in - “I’m not sure about that darling”…’ Toby continues over my laughter, ‘…thus, a dialogue is opened…’
‘What’s with this “thus” stuff? We’re not QED’ing here.’
‘Wrong! I’ve proved it! We always do the how do I look thing for each other.’
’Tonight?’
Toby nods.
‘Maybe Carole is overdoing the tact and diplomacy! My round. Can I get you anything to eat, Toby?’
It’s gone all frosty at the Blue Bell.
96. The Negotiator
It’s Andy on the phone. ‘Are you going to the Blue Bell tonight?’ (I am). ‘Well can you have a serious word with Toby about his Morwen thing?’
‘Me!?’
‘He respects you.’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
‘When you’re not there, just me and him, he’s told me. Anyway I’ve had some goes and he’s still in Mills & Boon mode. He’s making a fool of himself and we’re his friends…right?’
If Andy can’t crack it, I can’t see how I can, but I agree.
‘Good man! Text me when you’re leaving, I’ll give you an hour together before I get there - give you a chance.’
‘Thanks - I think.’
‘And oh!, he’s growing that moustache of his again.’
‘Why in God’s name…?’
‘He overhead Morwen telling a guy with a moustache it made him look distinguished. So instead of Toby putting this down to good old buttering up the customers, he starts growing a moustache. Imagine kissing that!’
Toby wipes the foam from his moustache, ‘Cheers!’
‘Cheers Toby.’
Toby grows whiskers perpendicular to his skin, like everything is standing on end. Gives him a clenched look. He’s toyed with upper lippery before and this one is following the same pattern but with shots of grey to go with the brown and ginger.
‘When did you last kiss Carole?’
‘What!?’
‘Bet it’s ages.’
‘Before I left home, if it’s anything to do with you.’
‘Must be like kissing a hedgehog.’
‘What would you know?’
‘Give us a kiss and I’ll tell you. Pucker up!’ I lunge over the table.
‘Behave yourself!’
’Toby, face it, you’re tonsorially challenged.’
‘What’s that snowflake for?’
‘Oh!…I see. I was trying to go light. Never mind. It’s snowflake for that’s a terrible moustache so why would you even dream of growing it?’
‘Not everyone sees it the way you do though, do they?’
‘On this they would.’
He gestures me to lean close. ‘Morwen wouldn’t. She thinks moustaches are distinguished.’
I lean back, ‘That one’s distinctive, Toby. It will never be distinguished.’
Toby flits dark before brightening at Morwen’s approach to the table. She’s flipped his switch.
‘How are you gentlemen?’
‘He’s never been called one of those before!’ Toby bips.
I feel duty bound to say ‘And I’ve been called a lot of things…’
Toby’s laugh reaches. Why did Andy lumber me with this?
I don’t know what the trigger was, but as Morwen looked from Toby to me I flashed a freeze frame of the moment her eyes wondered whether I might know something. And when I look at Toby, his look back look is the same.
’Toby, you know Andy and me are your friends, right?’
‘And?’
‘And we…don’t like seeing you make a fool of yourself…’
‘That’s about you two, not me…even if I am making a fool of myself…which I’m not!’
‘You are! With this Morwen ogling fixation thing. You need to rein yourself in.’
He looks angry. ’Too late! We’ve arranged to meet.’
‘Shit, Toby! Are you…?
‘You’re not going to do moral high ground are you? After all the stuff you’ve done?’
’No…but…Toby, are you sure about this?’
‘We’re just meeting. What’s it to do with you?’
‘It’s to do with me being your friend. Andy thinks the same too.’
‘Okay. Noted.’
‘Right! As we’re clamming up, I don’t want to know anything else, keep it to yourself! I can’t have this flapping about in my head like a trapped bird!’
Toby glares at me.
I glare back, ‘I’m Carole’s friend too!’
My mission having ended in sparkling failure, Toby and me are doing semaphore of the face and I’ve been glancing at the door every twenty seconds or so. Where is he? The door opens to frame Andy’s big frame, backlit by the car park floodlight. I freeze-frame that too but it didn’t cut John Wayne in The Searchers. Naturally he acts like he knows nothing of what might have preceded but I think he misjudged the mood of the table.
‘Hello guys! Still growing that bog-brush Toby?’
Toby stilts off, ‘My round.’
’Shouldn’t we stop him going to the bar?’ Andy whispers.
‘Let him fuck off and bristle his tache at the barmaid.’
‘Come on, you don’t mean that!’
‘Sometimes it’s really hard being his mate. Anyway, we’re acting and plotting like Carole needs protecting, like she would automatically take this badly.’
‘What do you mean she wouldn’t…’
‘You know, “I was once adored too”. We don’t know their life together, except for what they show us. Like in Chinatown, she might not object to his affair if…’
’Chinatown?’
‘If she was having her own. I’m not saying she is, I’m just trying to say…it’s complicado.’
‘We’re talking about Carole!’
‘We’re talking about Toby!’
‘Keep out of it, eh?’
We clink concordat with the pints Toby hands us. Andy looks relieved. Toby looks superior. If I look how I feel, I look miserable.
97. Purple Haze Grasshopper & The Beard
‘Aren't you getting ready?’
‘For what?’
‘Toby's barbecue.’
‘Oh...I forgot.’
‘It's smoking that stuff!’
I was smoking and I had a G&T in my other hand but I hadn't forgotten, I just didn't want to go. Since Toby’s gone nuts over The Blue Bell’s landlady, I don’t feel comfortable in his company. I didn’t want to go. And I thought wandering around the garden in a yukata, sunhat and sunglasses taking an interest in insect and plant life might convey that too.
I must have had a stubborn set on because Georgie broke a smile and gave me a hug, ‘Come on, you’ll enjoy yourself - I don’t want to go on my own…’
I get ready.
Georgie has been edgy with me since she got back home - after a deluge of family news, she looked around, ’I see you didn’t clean up before I got back this time.’
‘You always guess I’ve just done it and go over stuff again, because I don’t match your standards. So I thought I’d save one of us the trouble this time.’
‘My standards? Micky’s the same.’
‘So why don’t you be different, then you won’t be the same?’
‘My mum was the same.’
‘But it’s not genetic.’
‘Who says?’
‘Are you saying it’s genes? - your mum’s fault you’re so hot on tidying up and your daughter is the same because of you?
‘And maybe my mum.’
‘OK. We’re different.
‘So what did you do yesterday?'
‘Yesterday, apart from dogwalk each end, I stayed in, opened the doors and windows to keep things cool; tune in Test Match Special, smoke, tea, rinse and repeat, take some breaks to read some Chandler, snack, up the ante on the beverage, carry on rinsing and repeating.’
‘So how long was that?’
‘All day.’
‘Seems a waste to me.’
‘I prefer to wear myself out doing nothing - dolce far niente. When I’m worn out doing that, I can get back to doing something - if something needs doing.’
’Something always needs doing.’
‘It was my perfect minimalist day.’
‘Minimalist as in don’t do anything? I’d like to see that.’
‘If you wanted to see what my minimalism looks like, you’d have to be here, but then it wouldn’t be my minimalism, so you wouldn’t see it.’
‘What..!?’
‘My minimalism is my own?’
I attribute the sassiness to Chandler and a wonderful day of test cricket radio.
So, I’m spruced up and we’re at a Toby Special. The weather is set fair as it gets, there’s fancy grub for their fancy new brick barbecue, built by Toby. He and Carole are extra spruce and smiley and huggy. So it’s all gone domestic bliss now? He sensed I was distant and dragged me away, pointing to a blowsy plant at the end of the garden.
‘I don’t want to know about anything except shrubbery, Toby’
‘What?’
‘You know.’
‘You mean Morwen!?’ He dismisses her with a wave. ’History.’
‘That was quick! What happened?’
‘Nothing happened! I saw her in the pub car park swooning all over that bloke with the beard.'
‘The one who's the reason you grew a beard too?'
‘Yeah. Him. Sports car, top down, silvery grey hair swept back, dayglow teeth. Sitting there all ‘look how tanned and handsome I am’.’
‘Not your type then?’
‘Bastard shaved his beard off! She likes him even more now!’
‘About time you did.’
‘Can’t do it too soon after him can I? Make me look ridiculous!’
‘How do you think you look now?’ He scratches his beard. ’If you catch that on the barbecue, it’ll be like a bush fire.’
Toby grunts.
’So! Your rival wins out and you’re put out. Getting beaten into second isn’t the same as not wanting first.’
‘More Zen shit?’
‘Would you have still gone ahead if he hadn’t bested you, or did you have a change of heart, or is the competition too hard, or is your conscience not up to it, or…?’
His anger flared and I think he wanted to hit me. ‘Nobody got hurt…Mr Morals!’
‘Good. So like you say, history.’
‘Why’s it so important to you?’
‘You can be a twat Toby but I’m still your friend, Andy’s still your friend. Like I said, Andy and me didn’t want to see you make a fool of yourself.’
‘Not really your business though is it?’
‘It is when you insist on telling us all about it - whether we want to hear it or not.’
He grimaces. ‘OK. Fair enough. Anyway, she’s obviously a bit of a tart. I had a lucky escape.’
‘Well if she is you are! Just because she preferred someone else to you, doesn’t mean she’s cutting notches in her bedpost.’
Toby looks hurt, shapes into a garden ornament - Greek mythic pleading style, “As you’re my friend, I thought I might get a little more sympathy. You know - a bit of fellow feeling?’
I give him my unsympathetic smile. He spins and walks, scratching his beard hard, like it’s just got round to irritating him, ‘Come and get some grub!’
As the thaw sets in, I hear a needle crunk into the groove, then scratchy, warm, familiar aurals. I hope it’s same back for Toby, if that’s what he wants. We all got merry, we all parted friends. I’ll take all that.
On the way home Georgie asks ‘When is Toby going to get rid of that beard!? He looks like an angry lumberjack.’
’Soon.’
98. The Green Man
The Dun Cow burned down, The Rat&Sofa buffered into covid, The Blue Bell has to wait until Toby gets his chops back. After not getting anywhere, don’t like the look of that pub wandering, we’ve ended up in the supermarket booze aisle. I gave up on the what to buy discussion when it acquired an edge of testosterone - Andy and Toby have been bickering since we met. My anticipation phase has been and gone and I’m thinking of tea, but I grab some Weissbier from the chiller and leave them to it.
I try all the mein host stuff back at mine but I guess it’s some niggle I don’t know about that keeps Andy and Toby tuned for snipes. Three blokes in the garden, an afternoon of hot sunshine, all the beer drunk, spirits invoked. What could go wrong? I’m looking at Andy’s chair, its legs sunk 9” into the ground, and I’m idly thinking I’ll never see those ferrules again when gulls circling overhead break out of chunter into excited screeching. Toby leans his chair back to look up, tips, falls and fucks my six-foot fennel flat. The air explodes with aniseed and bemused hoverflies. I fight not to show my mad and that delay is enough for me to know that if Toby had done this in his own garden, I would be laughing. Andy just gets on with that and as he struggles his phone out of a pocket for a snap, his chair’s back legs sink the rest of their way into the ground. I help Toby up, his beard and hair so full of fennel he’s the Green Man. Andy captures that too and when his laughter subsides asks ‘Have you got any clippers?’
Toby agrees to an all over number one, Andy wants me to video the clippering. Maybe it’s some follow up from earlier how Andy goes at it but we’re all laughing as I focus on him making random raking ploughs all over Toby’s hair and beard, Toby with a hand over the giant whisky in his lap to keep the cuttings from dropping in. We’re not long into the laughter when the clipper snarls and deads. When Georgie surprise brights into the garden with Carole and Olga, I’m trying to undo the sole plate with a gadget on a Swiss Army knife as Andy supports the clipper’s weight. Carole’s furious scream of ‘Toby!’ blanches him. He leaps to his feet, chair over again, clipper still hanging from his beard, drunkstumbles, tramples my lavender, doesn’t spill a drop of drink. ‘Hello darling!’
The fragrant triptych of horror, mirth and amazement hangs briefly in the doorway before moving back into the house. We hear ‘Can’t be trusted’, ‘Worse than children’, ‘Idiots’.
‘Not like you to buy crap gear’ Andy louds to be heard, ‘You should ask for your money back!’
‘It’s only meant for human beards.’
I get the weighty bit off but Toby won’t let me cut away the business end, ‘Carole will do it.’ He leaves us to speak with her, soon returns, scratching his patchwork head, ‘Venus and bloody Mars!’
I feel I should offer come and join us hospitality to our wives and interrupt them in the kitchen pouring tea into china cups and plating up an unribboned box of fancy pastries. I feel suddenly and self-consciously uncivilised and hoggish, like Charlie Allnut in The African Queen. ‘Let me know if I can get you anything’ I say cheerfully but superfluously, and return to the demi-wreckage of front garden - broken verdure, unseated seats and clumps of nest material. Andy has closed his eyes against the sun that glitters on the stainless steel snagged in the remains of Toby’s beard. My head is starting a warning throb and I’m peeved about not taking tea instead of beer and whisky. I’m expecting to be reminded later that ‘You never learn.’ It’s my peevishness that prompts me to do what I told myself I wouldn’t and start ragging Toby about Boris. ’Don’t you feel privileged Toby? Primus inter pares - one of 160,00 who get to decide how over 60 million get governed? Democracy!’
’Shameful!’ Andy says.
'Actually, I agree.'
'You do?’ The wind is gone from my sails before they’ve barely flapped.
'I'm disgusted with the lot of them. Had enough. I'm leaving the party.'
'I don't believe it!’ Andy says, more in surprise than challenge.
Toby gets out his wallet, extracts his membership card, 'Got some scissors?'
I get the kitchen scissors. Andy videos as Toby cuts his card into pieces with elaborate flourish that includes snipping a finger. It’s a bleeder. Not his day. I go to fetch a plaster with his ‘Don’t tell Carole!’ trailing after. The plasters have been moved and my searching indiscreets me.
‘What now?’
‘Nothing Georgie, just a nick.’
She follows me to the garden, expressing concern. Toby waves it ‘All OK’ away. Carole bobs out, sighs a heavy sigh, ’Men die younger than women. I wonder why’, turns away shaking her head.
‘I’m insured!’ Toby calls after her.
Andy waits for her return to tea and pastries, stares into his glass as he swirls, ‘True, but men are more willing to die.’
Olga’s voice from the shady house carries a tone, ‘I heard that Andy!’
He knocks back his drink ‘Have you got a barbecue?’
What could go wrong?
I try all the mein host stuff back at mine but I guess it’s some niggle I don’t know about that keeps Andy and Toby tuned for snipes. Three blokes in the garden, an afternoon of hot sunshine, all the beer drunk, spirits invoked. What could go wrong? I’m looking at Andy’s chair, its legs sunk 9” into the ground, and I’m idly thinking I’ll never see those ferrules again when gulls circling overhead break out of chunter into excited screeching. Toby leans his chair back to look up, tips, falls and fucks my six-foot fennel flat. The air explodes with aniseed and bemused hoverflies. I fight not to show my mad and that delay is enough for me to know that if Toby had done this in his own garden, I would be laughing. Andy just gets on with that and as he struggles his phone out of a pocket for a snap, his chair’s back legs sink the rest of their way into the ground. I help Toby up, his beard and hair so full of fennel he’s the Green Man. Andy captures that too and when his laughter subsides asks ‘Have you got any clippers?’
Toby agrees to an all over number one, Andy wants me to video the clippering. Maybe it’s some follow up from earlier how Andy goes at it but we’re all laughing as I focus on him making random raking ploughs all over Toby’s hair and beard, Toby with a hand over the giant whisky in his lap to keep the cuttings from dropping in. We’re not long into the laughter when the clipper snarls and deads. When Georgie surprise brights into the garden with Carole and Olga, I’m trying to undo the sole plate with a gadget on a Swiss Army knife as Andy supports the clipper’s weight. Carole’s furious scream of ‘Toby!’ blanches him. He leaps to his feet, chair over again, clipper still hanging from his beard, drunkstumbles, tramples my lavender, doesn’t spill a drop of drink. ‘Hello darling!’
The fragrant triptych of horror, mirth and amazement hangs briefly in the doorway before moving back into the house. We hear ‘Can’t be trusted’, ‘Worse than children’, ‘Idiots’.
‘Not like you to buy crap gear’ Andy louds to be heard, ‘You should ask for your money back!’
‘It’s only meant for human beards.’
I get the weighty bit off but Toby won’t let me cut away the business end, ‘Carole will do it.’ He leaves us to speak with her, soon returns, scratching his patchwork head, ‘Venus and bloody Mars!’
I feel I should offer come and join us hospitality to our wives and interrupt them in the kitchen pouring tea into china cups and plating up an unribboned box of fancy pastries. I feel suddenly and self-consciously uncivilised and hoggish, like Charlie Allnut in The African Queen. ‘Let me know if I can get you anything’ I say cheerfully but superfluously, and return to the demi-wreckage of front garden - broken verdure, unseated seats and clumps of nest material. Andy has closed his eyes against the sun that glitters on the stainless steel snagged in the remains of Toby’s beard. My head is starting a warning throb and I’m peeved about not taking tea instead of beer and whisky. I’m expecting to be reminded later that ‘You never learn.’ It’s my peevishness that prompts me to do what I told myself I wouldn’t and start ragging Toby about Boris. ’Don’t you feel privileged Toby? Primus inter pares - one of 160,00 who get to decide how over 60 million get governed? Democracy!’
’Shameful!’ Andy says.
'Actually, I agree.'
'You do?’ The wind is gone from my sails before they’ve barely flapped.
'I'm disgusted with the lot of them. Had enough. I'm leaving the party.'
'I don't believe it!’ Andy says, more in surprise than challenge.
Toby gets out his wallet, extracts his membership card, 'Got some scissors?'
I get the kitchen scissors. Andy videos as Toby cuts his card into pieces with elaborate flourish that includes snipping a finger. It’s a bleeder. Not his day. I go to fetch a plaster with his ‘Don’t tell Carole!’ trailing after. The plasters have been moved and my searching indiscreets me.
‘What now?’
‘Nothing Georgie, just a nick.’
She follows me to the garden, expressing concern. Toby waves it ‘All OK’ away. Carole bobs out, sighs a heavy sigh, ’Men die younger than women. I wonder why’, turns away shaking her head.
‘I’m insured!’ Toby calls after her.
Andy waits for her return to tea and pastries, stares into his glass as he swirls, ‘True, but men are more willing to die.’
Olga’s voice from the shady house carries a tone, ‘I heard that Andy!’
He knocks back his drink ‘Have you got a barbecue?’
What could go wrong?
99. Life is a Beach
The sea is so far out binoculars are needed to see the cream of a wave on its gunmetal glint, but Toby is adamant he will get some paddling done so we head east. We’re on the heat shimmered sands of Lincolnshire’s coastline, part of the fastest crumbling seaboard in Europe. It’s so flat that a little heap of flyblown bladderwrack can be considered a feature. When we come to a deep etched traverse of tidal water seeking the sea, I crab left, Andy and Toby go right, tight under Andy’s fishing umbrella, briefly remystifying me as to the popular appeal of The Singing Butler. The sun is blisteringly hot and I’m soon staggering along like the man in Lawrence of Arabia who fell off his camel crossing the Nefud desert. ‘El verano también es nuestro’ - if I go horizontal here, I’ll be good for another controversial beach body promo.
As Andy and Toby dwindle seawards I dawdle, deciding to head back to the Chapel Six Marshes car park and picnic area, I turn to reset my sights on the steel conning tower sculpture rising from the dunes, maybe I’ll collect some samphire on the way. I’ll have to wait to get at the cold beers and chicken drumsticks in Toby’s van but meantime I’ll be able to stand and admire it. The van is Toby’s new ‘classic car’ project and knowing his skill and patience it’ll be even more covetable. It’s a late sixties VW camper van that’s going to be ‘Pistachio and cream, chrome in all the right places’. He bought it from someone who also saw it as a project but who underestimated pretty much every resource that needed. ‘He was even bigger than you Andy - a giant with an Afro’ which Toby said accounted for the polished clean bit of roof lining above the driver’s seat.
My return walk takes me over a meandered stream of dry, dead starfish where the tide stranded them, and past the disarticulated ribcage of a long lost skiff, scuffed clean of the sand that had covered it for unknown quiet moons, sights that immersed me in transient, wondering fugues before I could get my feet moving again.
Back at the van there’s a nine inch strip of shade driver’s side. I share that and what’s left in my bottle of water with a wandering dog and his panting six inch tongue. We’ll see him again for the chicken I guess. My own tongue must be nearly as long as the dog’s by the time Andy and Toby hove through the sea gate. As I expected, doggo returns to share the meat bit of our two ingredient picnic. My cold beer is nirvanic.
’So what do you think of her?’
‘Very nice’ I say, ‘I’m glad you didn’t go for an open top sports like that love rival of yours Toby.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re the kind of car I used to eyeball when I was young. And they were almost always being driven by some old guy. I guess they were just realising a long-dreamt dream but it always gave me cognitive dissonance.’
‘Is that a fancy term for jealousy? Why can’t older guys have some fun too?’
‘They can. But I think some things just fit and work better with youth. And in my case - now - what’s the point in the wind ruffling redundant follicles?’
Toby laughs, ‘Life’s unfair! Boo-hoo! Get over it.’
‘I’ll never get over it. But I am past it.’
‘Well, you can…’ Toby leaps up, frantically whacking himself. We’re getting invaded by small, hairy caterpillars, and he’s been vanguarded. ‘Little bastards!’
‘They’re a wonder of nature really’ Andy says brushing them away gently. ‘Egg, chrysalis and whatever.’
‘Imago’ I add.
‘Give us a break from your Shakespeare stuff and help me get these things off.’
‘It’s…any more beers?’
We circle the VW, Toby elaborating on the process to come, talking technical. I ask him what the plan is when it’s all done. He tells us how he and Carole will take to the road for outings but it seems the principle purpose of it all is to drive it to motor rallies and shows, park it and show it off. Clearly, there’s stuff I’m not getting and I have to ask why.
‘Why not?’.
‘Do many women do this kind of thing?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Just a personal theory that it’s a very blokey thing to do, like making galleons out of matchsticks. A mindset.’
‘You should’ve come with us under the umbrella, I think the sun’s got to you. Better get you home before you go weirder.’
Andy and me both try getting in the front seat at the same time and he’s startled but otherwise unimpressed by my Withnail ‘GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!’
I get in the back. The VW’s clattering chug and the jingle of empty bottles are noisily comforting and a thought occurs to me.
‘I wonder whether car on pedestrian accidents will increase as more people drive electric cars.’
‘What!?’
‘I almost got hit by one a couple of days ago. Didn’t hear it coming.’
‘That’s because you’re past it.’
They laugh, and with their high five, cognitive dissonance plays with me again.
As Andy and Toby dwindle seawards I dawdle, deciding to head back to the Chapel Six Marshes car park and picnic area, I turn to reset my sights on the steel conning tower sculpture rising from the dunes, maybe I’ll collect some samphire on the way. I’ll have to wait to get at the cold beers and chicken drumsticks in Toby’s van but meantime I’ll be able to stand and admire it. The van is Toby’s new ‘classic car’ project and knowing his skill and patience it’ll be even more covetable. It’s a late sixties VW camper van that’s going to be ‘Pistachio and cream, chrome in all the right places’. He bought it from someone who also saw it as a project but who underestimated pretty much every resource that needed. ‘He was even bigger than you Andy - a giant with an Afro’ which Toby said accounted for the polished clean bit of roof lining above the driver’s seat.
My return walk takes me over a meandered stream of dry, dead starfish where the tide stranded them, and past the disarticulated ribcage of a long lost skiff, scuffed clean of the sand that had covered it for unknown quiet moons, sights that immersed me in transient, wondering fugues before I could get my feet moving again.
Back at the van there’s a nine inch strip of shade driver’s side. I share that and what’s left in my bottle of water with a wandering dog and his panting six inch tongue. We’ll see him again for the chicken I guess. My own tongue must be nearly as long as the dog’s by the time Andy and Toby hove through the sea gate. As I expected, doggo returns to share the meat bit of our two ingredient picnic. My cold beer is nirvanic.
’So what do you think of her?’
‘Very nice’ I say, ‘I’m glad you didn’t go for an open top sports like that love rival of yours Toby.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re the kind of car I used to eyeball when I was young. And they were almost always being driven by some old guy. I guess they were just realising a long-dreamt dream but it always gave me cognitive dissonance.’
‘Is that a fancy term for jealousy? Why can’t older guys have some fun too?’
‘They can. But I think some things just fit and work better with youth. And in my case - now - what’s the point in the wind ruffling redundant follicles?’
Toby laughs, ‘Life’s unfair! Boo-hoo! Get over it.’
‘I’ll never get over it. But I am past it.’
‘Well, you can…’ Toby leaps up, frantically whacking himself. We’re getting invaded by small, hairy caterpillars, and he’s been vanguarded. ‘Little bastards!’
‘They’re a wonder of nature really’ Andy says brushing them away gently. ‘Egg, chrysalis and whatever.’
‘Imago’ I add.
‘Give us a break from your Shakespeare stuff and help me get these things off.’
‘It’s…any more beers?’
We circle the VW, Toby elaborating on the process to come, talking technical. I ask him what the plan is when it’s all done. He tells us how he and Carole will take to the road for outings but it seems the principle purpose of it all is to drive it to motor rallies and shows, park it and show it off. Clearly, there’s stuff I’m not getting and I have to ask why.
‘Why not?’.
‘Do many women do this kind of thing?’
‘What are you getting at?’
‘Just a personal theory that it’s a very blokey thing to do, like making galleons out of matchsticks. A mindset.’
‘You should’ve come with us under the umbrella, I think the sun’s got to you. Better get you home before you go weirder.’
Andy and me both try getting in the front seat at the same time and he’s startled but otherwise unimpressed by my Withnail ‘GET IN THE BACK OF THE VAN!’
I get in the back. The VW’s clattering chug and the jingle of empty bottles are noisily comforting and a thought occurs to me.
‘I wonder whether car on pedestrian accidents will increase as more people drive electric cars.’
‘What!?’
‘I almost got hit by one a couple of days ago. Didn’t hear it coming.’
‘That’s because you’re past it.’
They laugh, and with their high five, cognitive dissonance plays with me again.