Monday, July 21, 2008
5.
The Nazi story turned out to be a complete wash out. There had been reports of racist and nazi activities at St Michaels Social Club on Wednesday afternoons, (tea and biscuits provided). I entered their ‘lair’ with a due sense of apprehension at what I might find. I prepared myself for goose stepping skin heads running a mock and was astonished to be greeted by my Aunt Nell sat there with Aunty Annie, Mrs Kilgannon from Lacey Street who used to baby sit me, and a sea of elderly, yet relatively familiar faces from various funerals, weddings and such like I had attended through the years. This Nazi rally must had the most formidable wealth of knitting and cake baking talent the Third Reich had ever witnessed. Even Mrs Patel who used to run the corner shop was there with her sister Rhanviar. I sensed instinctively that I had not unearthed the soft white underbelly, the ‘Eagles Nest’, of racist extremism in Farndon.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Aunt Annie in a bewildered tone, still struggling to comprehend what I was witnessing. There wasn’t a swastika in sight, not even a knitted one.
‘Were just helping Mr Bloodworth with the by-election love’ she answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘But he’s a BNP candidate!’ I spat hoping that perhaps the penny would drop
‘He’s promised to do up the Community Centre and look after the pensioners, just what this town needs’
‘But, what about Mrs Patel and Rhanviar?’ I tried hoping to bring some sense to the madness ‘ Oh it gets them out of the house, they’re friends of Mrs Kilgannons and they don’t get out much these days. It’s not right them being cooped up in that flat all day and they do love the bingo.’
I was gob-smacked; there was no way I was reporting that my own family were at the hub of the fleece-lined gumboot wearing ‘Jerry’ –atrics! Even if the anchor line appealed to me enormously.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Patel think its, well, a bit racist?’
‘No, they don’t mean people like Mrs Patel and Rhanviar, they’re after the illegal immigrants, too many of them coming in you know, this country’s going to the dogs. Mrs Patel’s more British than you.’
I had to get out; I finished my cup of tea, dropped three custard creams into my pocket (noticing the distinct lack of bourbon creams) and jumped the number 13 to the office.
The Nazi story turned out to be a complete wash out. There had been reports of racist and nazi activities at St Michaels Social Club on Wednesday afternoons, (tea and biscuits provided). I entered their ‘lair’ with a due sense of apprehension at what I might find. I prepared myself for goose stepping skin heads running a mock and was astonished to be greeted by my Aunt Nell sat there with Aunty Annie, Mrs Kilgannon from Lacey Street who used to baby sit me, and a sea of elderly, yet relatively familiar faces from various funerals, weddings and such like I had attended through the years. This Nazi rally must had the most formidable wealth of knitting and cake baking talent the Third Reich had ever witnessed. Even Mrs Patel who used to run the corner shop was there with her sister Rhanviar. I sensed instinctively that I had not unearthed the soft white underbelly, the ‘Eagles Nest’, of racist extremism in Farndon.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked Aunt Annie in a bewildered tone, still struggling to comprehend what I was witnessing. There wasn’t a swastika in sight, not even a knitted one.
‘Were just helping Mr Bloodworth with the by-election love’ she answered as if it was the most natural thing in the world ‘would you like a cup of tea?’
‘But he’s a BNP candidate!’ I spat hoping that perhaps the penny would drop
‘He’s promised to do up the Community Centre and look after the pensioners, just what this town needs’
‘But, what about Mrs Patel and Rhanviar?’ I tried hoping to bring some sense to the madness ‘ Oh it gets them out of the house, they’re friends of Mrs Kilgannons and they don’t get out much these days. It’s not right them being cooped up in that flat all day and they do love the bingo.’
I was gob-smacked; there was no way I was reporting that my own family were at the hub of the fleece-lined gumboot wearing ‘Jerry’ –atrics! Even if the anchor line appealed to me enormously.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Patel think its, well, a bit racist?’
‘No, they don’t mean people like Mrs Patel and Rhanviar, they’re after the illegal immigrants, too many of them coming in you know, this country’s going to the dogs. Mrs Patel’s more British than you.’
I had to get out; I finished my cup of tea, dropped three custard creams into my pocket (noticing the distinct lack of bourbon creams) and jumped the number 13 to the office.
4.
I woke late next day. I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the house. It was 10am, I was meant to be reporting on a local BNP or Nazi meeting I’d been given a lead on and my head felt clumsy. I had agreed to a couple of quiet pints but hadn’t banked on the half dozen rowdy ones that quickly followed them down. Breakfast was a step too far. I made a cup of strong tea and turned on the radio. The phone rang again, there was no way it would be good news so I left it. I turned on the computer, no new leads as yet just reminders and an email off Jez. I opened it; it was exactly the same e-mail as he had sent yesterday; only this time, it made sense! The heavy night, the barring and the black eye, it all made sense, it was unbelievable. I looked for the e-mail from yesterday, it had gone. I had definitely not imagined it. Jez’s prediction had somehow come true.
I woke late next day. I heard my phone ringing somewhere in the house. It was 10am, I was meant to be reporting on a local BNP or Nazi meeting I’d been given a lead on and my head felt clumsy. I had agreed to a couple of quiet pints but hadn’t banked on the half dozen rowdy ones that quickly followed them down. Breakfast was a step too far. I made a cup of strong tea and turned on the radio. The phone rang again, there was no way it would be good news so I left it. I turned on the computer, no new leads as yet just reminders and an email off Jez. I opened it; it was exactly the same e-mail as he had sent yesterday; only this time, it made sense! The heavy night, the barring and the black eye, it all made sense, it was unbelievable. I looked for the e-mail from yesterday, it had gone. I had definitely not imagined it. Jez’s prediction had somehow come true.
3.
The Coach and Horses has always been there, and the people who frequent it always seemed to have been there too. It is an old-fashioned, large, red brick building with small leaded windows and a familiar, strangely heart-warming smell of stale ale and cigarettes. The dusty sign on the wall read ‘smart dress essential’ the one below it advertised live sky sports and below that ‘smoking permitted throughout’. Despite the smoking ban the back door was rarely closed with the succession of smokers forming some kind of endless Olympic relay team back and to. As a result there was as much smoke in the pub as being blown out. Upon entering the bar it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. Jez was at the bar. The landlord: John: a grumpy sort, gave me an inquisitive, disinterested and vaguely disappointed look. Jez had taken the liberty of ordering me a lager, £1.50, it was happy hour!
John had been the landlord for as long as I could remember and was a unique character. He was the only landlord I knew who actually resented his customers. He resented the money they earned, he resented the cars they owned, he resented them coming into his pub. John was a huge, balding man in his fifties. He had hands like shovels and preferred to do as little as possible. In his prime he had been a professional Rugby League player for a top club. He had even been to Wembley, but had earned little from it except a reputation and a twisted nose. He was an insufferable gambler and not a good one. To win on the fruit machine after John had spent the day filling it out of his own pocket was playing with fire; it would be safer to have been caught in bed with his wife reading his racing post. Some of the regulars at the bar, each day, were younger than John and retired, John feigned friendship with them and they with him but when backs were turned there was a mutual loathing. He put up with them for the money they brought in and they put up with John, well, because they had to. John’s wife was Jean, she was often in the background and they seemingly made a good couple, on the surface. But deep down everyone knew that this was a show they put on for the customers to disguise a marriage that had been dead for years. Johns gambling, drinking, infidelity and violent temper had taken its toll on their relationship and it was only that fact that they were too old, too ugly and too scared to go their separate ways that had held them together. Rumour had it that she had caught him in a compromising position with a bar maid on the pool table one night, after hours, and had broken a porcelain ashtray over his head. No one knows for sure. The only thing I know is that I never dared ask him. John was renowned through out the town as a man not to tangle with.
I ordered two more pints and decided to hunt for a seat. I sensed from the swarms of Liverpool shirt wearing drinkers pouring through the doors glaring expectantly at the big screen that the quiz was off.
Half pissed thirsty drinkers were loading their rickety tables to near breaking point, table legs buckling under a sea of pints. The bar was three deep and the whole place a deafening clamour of drunken conversations battling like hungry seagulls to be the loudest.Jez found a seat in an enviable position. A spacious table 'benefiting from front and rear seating located in close proximity, and with easy access, to both the TV and the bar. A desirable and much sought after location ideal for the first time drinker.'Skin heads, Polo shirts, classic trainers and jeans jostled all around us. Everyone in there could have been brothers. Their conversation was typically loud and crude. A good early start on the beers had ensured that the language would be as course and raw as anywhere in the town. An hour to kick off and there was a salient air of both anxiety and anticipation mixing with the already beer fuelled mercurial atmosphere.
I was arguing with Jez over who’s round it was with the fags when a voice boomed in our direction;“Oi! You used to pick on me at school didn’t you?”Jez always cocksure, span round grinning with an unlit fag pursed between his lips to discover the question had been aimed his way. Stood before him there loomed a colossus of a man. Shaven headed leaving only the very merest suggestion as to his hairs natural blonde colour. Arms like concrete battering rams welded together across a barrel sized chest. Jez’s grin drained agonisingly from his face and the fag drooped and lolled flaccidly against his now sagging chin. Trying to regain his composure Jez weighed up his options. Being of a light build he had only one discernable advantage over this Goliath; speed. But penned into a crowded boozer he mentally concluded he was buggered.“Fuck off” He spat, removing the fag from his face “ as if id pick on you, look at the size of you”“Yeah, you did, you picked on me at school, I remember” Goliath came back. A sly smirk swept slowly across his moon like face, eyes narrowed menacingly indicating the impending danger. Goliath took a step nearer to our table willing him to squirm. An apology or an offer of the beverage of Goliaths preference might go some way to mending the old wounds I thought but Jez, not always one for logical thought patterns, broke with usual protocol and rather gamely offered“Fuck off, if anyone’s the bully round here its you. Look at you stood there flexing your steroid pumped arms thinking your it, do us a favour and piss off!” Goliaths teeth clenched in morbid rage.I’m not sure whether Jez saw or felt the blow that swept so briskly across his face. His bottom jaw seemed to spring across the lounge bar like a till drawer opening and then savagely snapping shut. With a customary rolling of the eye balls into the back of his head Jez’s seat suddenly became temporarily available and Goliath melted back into the throng of delighted on lookers. The perfect aperitif to the big match, and the end of our night. The landlord, apparently a friend of Goliath, deemed the affray to be our fault and barred us both.
2.
I should have twigged right of when I got home that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t. Outwardly everything appeared normal. I’d left the milk on the step for the magpies to devour, as normal, and the front door was practically barricaded shut under the sheer weight of charity clothing bags and pizza menu’s that had been shovelled through my letterbox. I remember sensing something briefly; I couldn’t put my finger on it and was quickly distracted by the urge to turn Noel Edmonds off the television before I became unexplainably hooked to Deal or No Deal and kissed goodbye to the next hour of my life.
The warm afternoon sun surged painfully through the half moon, stained window of the front door bathing the hallway in a warm balmy glow. Though an old Victorian terrace the front door belied the large spacious interior hidden beyond. I’d bought the place three years ago for its redevelopment potential. I’d seen too many morning makeover shows, though it still had the potential. Knowing Scullard was on the warpath for my reports I turned to the computer to see what new assignments I’d been blessed with. There were the usual deadline warnings I’d set myself, reminders, invitations to take out loans that I could never pay off even if I had the life span of a giant tortoise, a new e-mail off Sophie and a lead to interview an old lady from Birkdale Road who had painstakingly clipped her hedge into the shape of a cockerel. Not the most fascinating journalism in the world but at least I had an interesting headline in mind! I decided to read Sophie’s first. I was insanely optimistic it may have bee some heartfelt outpouring of her hidden feelings toward me sent in a moment of drunken sincerity. Predictably it was as soul destroyingly work related as ever, helpfully reminding me of the bi-monthly team meeting next week. I decided to shy away from the rest of the work mails noticing instead that my mate, drinking buddy and pulling pal Jez had mailed me. Jez, and I had been mates since school. His life had gradually spiralled down hill since leaving college gravitating from one awful job to the next, unable to find a girlfriend and now stuck in a sorry, shameful rut of fast food, drink and internet pornography. He was the one thing in life that made me feel good about myself! The mail was confusing, even for Jez. It suggested a night of drink-fuelled madness the previous evening, which had culminated in a barring from whatever pub we had supposedly disgraced ourselves in and a black eye. I decided not to play along and text him to meet up as tonight was our usual mid-week drinking evening. The Coach and Horse for the pub quiz, a few rounds of light ales and a watchful eye for ladies of a certain temperament.
I should have twigged right of when I got home that something wasn’t right, but I didn’t. Outwardly everything appeared normal. I’d left the milk on the step for the magpies to devour, as normal, and the front door was practically barricaded shut under the sheer weight of charity clothing bags and pizza menu’s that had been shovelled through my letterbox. I remember sensing something briefly; I couldn’t put my finger on it and was quickly distracted by the urge to turn Noel Edmonds off the television before I became unexplainably hooked to Deal or No Deal and kissed goodbye to the next hour of my life.
The warm afternoon sun surged painfully through the half moon, stained window of the front door bathing the hallway in a warm balmy glow. Though an old Victorian terrace the front door belied the large spacious interior hidden beyond. I’d bought the place three years ago for its redevelopment potential. I’d seen too many morning makeover shows, though it still had the potential. Knowing Scullard was on the warpath for my reports I turned to the computer to see what new assignments I’d been blessed with. There were the usual deadline warnings I’d set myself, reminders, invitations to take out loans that I could never pay off even if I had the life span of a giant tortoise, a new e-mail off Sophie and a lead to interview an old lady from Birkdale Road who had painstakingly clipped her hedge into the shape of a cockerel. Not the most fascinating journalism in the world but at least I had an interesting headline in mind! I decided to read Sophie’s first. I was insanely optimistic it may have bee some heartfelt outpouring of her hidden feelings toward me sent in a moment of drunken sincerity. Predictably it was as soul destroyingly work related as ever, helpfully reminding me of the bi-monthly team meeting next week. I decided to shy away from the rest of the work mails noticing instead that my mate, drinking buddy and pulling pal Jez had mailed me. Jez, and I had been mates since school. His life had gradually spiralled down hill since leaving college gravitating from one awful job to the next, unable to find a girlfriend and now stuck in a sorry, shameful rut of fast food, drink and internet pornography. He was the one thing in life that made me feel good about myself! The mail was confusing, even for Jez. It suggested a night of drink-fuelled madness the previous evening, which had culminated in a barring from whatever pub we had supposedly disgraced ourselves in and a black eye. I decided not to play along and text him to meet up as tonight was our usual mid-week drinking evening. The Coach and Horse for the pub quiz, a few rounds of light ales and a watchful eye for ladies of a certain temperament.
1.
I caught the 13 bus back from town. I remember that. It was raining and the windows on the bus had steamed up the way they always do when it rains. I shuffled my way up to the top deck trying to avoid eye contact with anybody. The air smelt stale and sweaty. There was a vacant seat, which I took quickly and strategically positioned my bag next to me on the seat to discourage others from sitting there. I wiped the condensation off the window with my jacket sleeve and watched the people down below huddled tight to the shop fronts against the relentless downpour. Something whistled past my ear and I heard schoolboys laughing. Otherwise everything was normal.
When I first trained as a journalist I didn’t envisage myself catching the bus with the common herd. I saw myself as a serious investigative journalist uncovering the truth, exposing the big stories ‘excuse me Prime Minister, Nathan Bonney, BBC’, instead I find myself getting the bus to report on a bring and buy sale at a village hall which was far more bring than buy. I think people took it as an excuse to dump rubbish they had been meaning to dispose of for years. Anything that was of any actual value the women of the W.I ensured disappeared into mysterious bags under the fold away tables never to be seen again. These were the women who attended wakes, drinking tea while expertly scanning the homes of the deceased for items of value.
I got off on Albert Street and remember dashing for the office, holding the bag above my head for shelter. The Farndon Herald offices are a grim three-room operation above a greengrocer. The front door is old and worn; it reminds me of a Lowry painting hanging on its brass, part painted hinges; the window frosted, flaking and rotten. I kicked the door shut behind me with my heel and headed up the steep, narrow staircase to the office. It was quiet. I hung my jacket up on the peg and slinked to my desk past the editor’s office. ‘Bonney! Get in here!’ Mr Scullards familiar whiskey voice boomed without even looking up from his enormous desk.
Britland Scullard has run the Farndon Herald for as long as anyone can remember. A large, overbearing man with a huge barrel chest. The first thing that struck you was the jewellery. Four or five big gold rings, a huge gold bracelet with a large pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his red waistcoat. I knocked tentatively and entered.
‘These articles Bonney, should have been on my desk at 10am, Its, what, ‘ he put his glasses that were hung on a string round his neck up to his reddening face and squinted at the clock that emerged from his pocket, ‘Three O’clock Bonney. This is no good at all; I can’t have people sat about waiting for when you’re damn well good and ready. If they are not on time next week your on the obituaries and classifieds for a month. Do I make myself clear?’
The obituaries and classified ads are the domain of the admin staff, the office junior, the monkey. They are a painstaking and thankless task that leaves your eyes throbbing and your brain numb. When I left Mr Scullards office Sophie had arrived and was at her desk. Sophie McCloud is another journalist, pretty with bob length auburn hair and always, always wears a cardigan. She has a kind of teachers pet; prefect look to her that I think is fantastic.
‘Another rollicking Nathan?’ she asked with a wry cute smile that showed off the dimples in her cheeks.
‘What’s new?’ I shrugged ‘I come to expect it. I always get the most mind numbing local tittle-tattle to report on while his favourite- Sebastian ‘golden balls’ gets all the juicy headlines.’ Sebastian was the other reporter in the office, Sebastian Brashman, by far the out and out favourite of Scullard. He was tall and slim, oozed good breeding, good looks, a hit with the ladies a sharp dresser and what’s more I suspected Sophie fancied him. There really was no question about it I loathed Sebastian Brashman.
I caught the 13 bus back from town. I remember that. It was raining and the windows on the bus had steamed up the way they always do when it rains. I shuffled my way up to the top deck trying to avoid eye contact with anybody. The air smelt stale and sweaty. There was a vacant seat, which I took quickly and strategically positioned my bag next to me on the seat to discourage others from sitting there. I wiped the condensation off the window with my jacket sleeve and watched the people down below huddled tight to the shop fronts against the relentless downpour. Something whistled past my ear and I heard schoolboys laughing. Otherwise everything was normal.
When I first trained as a journalist I didn’t envisage myself catching the bus with the common herd. I saw myself as a serious investigative journalist uncovering the truth, exposing the big stories ‘excuse me Prime Minister, Nathan Bonney, BBC’, instead I find myself getting the bus to report on a bring and buy sale at a village hall which was far more bring than buy. I think people took it as an excuse to dump rubbish they had been meaning to dispose of for years. Anything that was of any actual value the women of the W.I ensured disappeared into mysterious bags under the fold away tables never to be seen again. These were the women who attended wakes, drinking tea while expertly scanning the homes of the deceased for items of value.
I got off on Albert Street and remember dashing for the office, holding the bag above my head for shelter. The Farndon Herald offices are a grim three-room operation above a greengrocer. The front door is old and worn; it reminds me of a Lowry painting hanging on its brass, part painted hinges; the window frosted, flaking and rotten. I kicked the door shut behind me with my heel and headed up the steep, narrow staircase to the office. It was quiet. I hung my jacket up on the peg and slinked to my desk past the editor’s office. ‘Bonney! Get in here!’ Mr Scullards familiar whiskey voice boomed without even looking up from his enormous desk.
Britland Scullard has run the Farndon Herald for as long as anyone can remember. A large, overbearing man with a huge barrel chest. The first thing that struck you was the jewellery. Four or five big gold rings, a huge gold bracelet with a large pocket-watch tucked into the pocket of his red waistcoat. I knocked tentatively and entered.
‘These articles Bonney, should have been on my desk at 10am, Its, what, ‘ he put his glasses that were hung on a string round his neck up to his reddening face and squinted at the clock that emerged from his pocket, ‘Three O’clock Bonney. This is no good at all; I can’t have people sat about waiting for when you’re damn well good and ready. If they are not on time next week your on the obituaries and classifieds for a month. Do I make myself clear?’
The obituaries and classified ads are the domain of the admin staff, the office junior, the monkey. They are a painstaking and thankless task that leaves your eyes throbbing and your brain numb. When I left Mr Scullards office Sophie had arrived and was at her desk. Sophie McCloud is another journalist, pretty with bob length auburn hair and always, always wears a cardigan. She has a kind of teachers pet; prefect look to her that I think is fantastic.
‘Another rollicking Nathan?’ she asked with a wry cute smile that showed off the dimples in her cheeks.
‘What’s new?’ I shrugged ‘I come to expect it. I always get the most mind numbing local tittle-tattle to report on while his favourite- Sebastian ‘golden balls’ gets all the juicy headlines.’ Sebastian was the other reporter in the office, Sebastian Brashman, by far the out and out favourite of Scullard. He was tall and slim, oozed good breeding, good looks, a hit with the ladies a sharp dresser and what’s more I suspected Sophie fancied him. There really was no question about it I loathed Sebastian Brashman.
