An Old Pub Near the Angel

He knew him well

The old man lowered the glass from his lips and began rolling another cigarette. His eyes never strayed until finally he lit up inhaling deeply. He stared at me for perhaps thirty seconds then cleared his throat and began speaking. ‘Funny places — pubs. Drank in here for near enough thirty years.’ He paused shaking his head slowly. ‘Never did get to know him. No. Never really spoke to him apart from Evening Jim. Night Jim. Been in the navy. Yes he’d been in the navy all right. Torpedoed I hear. 1944.’ He paused again to relight his dead cigarette. ‘Only survivor too. Never said much about it. Don’t blame him though.’ He looked up quickly then peered around the pub. ‘No, don’t blame him. Talk too much in this place already they do. Never bloody stop, it’s no good.’ He finished the remainder of his drink and looked over to the bar, catching the barman’s eye who nodded, opened a Guinness and sent it across.

‘Slate,’ said the old guy, ‘pay him pension day.’ He smiled. ‘Not supposed to drink this, says it’s bad for me gut — the doctor.’

‘Yeah?’ I said.

‘Oh, yeah,’ he nodded, ‘yes, said it would kill me if I weren’t careful,’ looking at me over the top of his spectacles. ‘Seventy-two I am, know that. Kill me! Ha! Bloody idiot.’

‘Did you like old Jim though?’ I asked.

‘Well never really knew him did I? I would’ve though. Yes, I would’ve liked old Jim if we’d spoke. But we never talked much, him and I. Not really.’ He paused for a sip, continued, ‘Knew his brother though — a couple of years older than Jim I think. And a real villain he was. Had a nice wife. I used to do the racetracks then and sometimes met Bert there.’ The old man stopped again, carefully extracting the long dead roll-up from between his lips and putting it into his waistcoat pocket. He took out his tobacco tin and rolled another. ‘Yeah old Bert.’ He lit up. ‘He was a villain. Used to tell me a few things — yes he did know horses and made a good living. Never came in here except to see old Jim.’

‘How did they get on together?’ I asked.

‘Old Jim and Bert?’ He scratched his head. ‘Well. Don’t know. Didn’t say much to each other. Some brothers don’t you know,’ he was looking over his glasses at me, ‘no they’d usually just sit drinking, sometimes laughing. Not talking though. Not much anyway, probably said everything I suppose. Course maybe Jim would ask after Bert’s wife and kids or something.’

‘Was old Jim never married then?’ I asked.

‘Maybe he was. Couldn’t really say, Guvnor’d tell you.’

‘Who, him?’ I pointed over to the bartender.

‘What, him! Ha.’ The old guy snorted into his drink, ‘Guvnor’d? He would like that. Bloody guvnor. No his brother-in-law old Jack Moore’s the guvnor but he’s been laid up now for over a year. Broke his leg and it’s never healed up, not properly. Him!’ He pointed over to the bar, ‘Slag thinks he’ll get this place if Jackie packs it in,’ the old man’s voice was beginning to rise in excitement. ‘No chance, no bloody chance of that. Even his sister hates his guts.’ He was speaking rather loudly now and I looked to see if the bartender was loitering but he seemed engrossed in cleaning the counter. The old man noticed my concern and leaned across the table. ‘Don’t pay any attention,’ he spoke quietly, ‘he hears me alright but he won’t let on. Bloody slag. What was I saying though? Old Jim, yes he could drink. Scotch he liked. Drank it all the time. Don’t care much for it myself. A drop of rum now and then. That does me.’ He paused to roll another cigarette. ‘He used to play football. Palace I think or maybe the Orient. Course he was getting on when the war began, just about ready to pack it in then and he never went back afterwards as he lost his arm.’

‘Was that in the war?’

‘Yes, when he was torpedoed,’ the old man was silent for nearly two minutes, puffing at his roll-up between sips of the black rum I’d got him. ‘Funny he should have waited so long to do it. Nearly seventy, course maybe his arm had something to do with it.’ He scratched his head and said, ‘Course they talk in this place. Wouldn’t if Jackie was here though. No. Not bloody likely they wouldn’t,’ he sucked his plastic teeth, ‘no not if Jackie was here behind the bar.’ He inhaled very deeply. ‘Where’d you find him then. . I mean what like was he when,’ the old man stopped and finished his drinks.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘just like it said in the papers. I was a bit worried ’cause I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days so I went along and banged his door. No answer, so I went off to the Library to see if I could see him there.’

‘The Library?’ the old man looked puzzled.

‘Yeah, old Jim used to go up before opening time nearly every day.’

‘Yes expect he would,’ said the old man, ‘now I think on it.’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘I got back about half five and saw the landlady. She was worried so I said did she want me to force the door. She said if I thought so I broke the door in and he was lying there, on the bed. The landlady saw him too before I could stop her. Throat sliced open. Doctor said he couldn’t have eaten for over a week.’

‘Bloody fool,’ the old man sighed, ‘he should’ve ate. That’s one thing you should do is eat. I eat every day. Yes, make sure of that. Well you’ve got to. Plate of soup’s good you know.’

I had ordered two drinks just on the last bell, we stayed silent, smoking and drinking until I finished and rose and said to him, ‘Well old man I’m off. See you again.’

‘Yes,’ he said staring into his glass shaking his head, ‘old Jim should’ve ate eh!’