An Old Pub Near the Angel

The Last Night

When Pete arrived home, well after midnight, the camp was in complete darkness. Fortunately the long dry spell had made the walk across the field comparatively safe. During the earlier part of the month the field had been reduced to a swamp and Pete had had to remove his socks, if he was wearing any, when crossing. One night when drunk, he had fallen full length into a cowbog and had to have a fully clothed shower afterwards.

The gate creaked as he closed it behind him. He walked noiselessly to his tent and fumbled around inside for his toilet bag and towel. He still felt rather pissed, a shower would freshen him up. A transistor sounded out from a nearby tent. As he walked to the washroom he hummed along with the singer.

There were two shower cubicles and each had a sixpenny slot attached to the door. However Pete had a steel comb which he surreptitiously used to force the lock when no one was around. He decided to brush his teeth first and as he squeezed the paste onto the toothbrush the door opened.

He watched in the mirror.

‘Hullo there,’ he said, vaguely recognizing one of the holidaymakers, a lad of about eighteen.

‘Hullo,’ replied the youth, ‘didn’t think there’d be anyone about.’ He had a towel round his shoulders.

‘Oh, I just got back,’ grinned Pete into the mirror.

‘Have you?’ he asked enviously, ‘Were you in St Helier?’

‘Yeah, I was in over the weekend. Drank too much as usual. Pubs are too good in this place.’

Pete began brushing his teeth.

‘Too hot to sleep,’ said the youth, ‘I was going to have a swim.’

‘Christ Almighty!’ Pete spat into the basin. ‘You kidding?’

‘No! I was in last night.’

‘But the pool’s covered with drowned flies.’

‘I never noticed.’

‘Must be crackers man.’ Pete rinsed his mouth. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘I’m going for a shower, a hot one.’

Pete walked to the cubicle door.

‘Now don’t watch,’ he said, pulling out his steel comb.

The youth smiled as Pete inserted it in between the lock and the door.

‘Do you do that too?’ he asked.

‘What! It was me who started it son. Holidaymakers should have more respect.’ He grinned.

‘Imagine charging sixpence for a shower though.’

‘Yeah it’s pretty stiff. What’s your name?’

‘Dave, Dave.’

‘Well, I’m Pete. See you later.’ He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Dave heard the tap being turned on as he left the washroom. The moon cast light over the campsite now, and the stars were glittering.

He opened the small gate leading to the pool. There were no flies as far as he could see. Throwing off his jumper and jeans he took a deep breath and plunged straight in. The water was colder than the previous night. He swam two lengths before jumping out shivering. Collecting his clothes and towel, he ran back to the washroom to dry.

Pete was combing his hair when he entered. Cold beads of water stood out on the boy’s goose-pimpled body.

‘Christ Almighty! Don’t shake near me man.’

‘Fresh and invigorating,’ laughed Dave, ‘very healthy.’

‘Crackers, I wouldn’t swim in there in the middle of a heatwave.’

‘Why not?’ asked Dave rubbing himself down.

‘It’s not been cleaned for two months. Can you imagine all those kids in there peeing and throwing lumps of mud about. And what about the drowned flies for God’s sake.’

Pete pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Here,’ he offered the packet.

Dave accepted one and finished dressing.

‘How long you been here Dave?’

‘Almost two weeks. Go back day after tomorrow.’

‘Like it?’ asked Pete sitting himself on the washhand basin.

‘Not bad. Saw nearly everything. Went to the old German hospital yesterday and we went around the island again today.’

‘More than I’ve done in four months.’

‘Four months?’ echoed Dave.

‘Yeah, I’m doing the season. My fourth,’ he added.

‘Lucky man,’ murmured Dave.

‘Yeah, it’s a good place this.’

‘Is the old Irishman with you?’

‘Old Patrick?’ Pete smiled, ‘he isn’t with anybody.’

‘What do you do to live?’

‘Oh picking. Potatoes, tomatoes, strawberries, roses.’ Pete shrugged. ‘Pick anything at all. Even noses.’

He jumped down from the basin.

‘Anyway Dave I start work in approximately six hours.’ He opened the door, ‘See you tomorrow if you’re around.’

At 7.15 a.m. Pete wearily stretched out an arm from the sleeping bag and switched off the alarm. He dragged himself out, pulled on his patched jeans and tee shirt then slipped into his sandals. The farmer’s boy had left the carton of milk under the outside flap. Even this early in the morning the temperature was soaring near 70°F. Pete drank half and hid the remainder in the long damp grass near his tent to stay fresh, covered by a polythene bag to ward off insects.

One or two campers were already up, the men out for a bit of peace before the children took over. The washroom was busy and Pete had to queue for an empty basin. Come August and it would be like Portobello Road on a Saturday afternoon. Some of the men were talking to each other, gingerly using christian names.

Pete was allowed a basin by one of the men before his turn. He was accorded some respect because of his status as a seasonal worker.

Among the hundred or so people camping on the site there were only two working the season. The previous year there had been eight but this season only Pete had returned with the old Irishman. Patrick had first come during the late fifties for some mysterious reason. Pete had guessed at tax problems but he was a close man and gave no clue whatsoever. He had come back every year since then only returning to Sligo every Christmas to visit his family and hand in all his money. Pete had come four seasons ago and had no fixed plans. He was twenty-four now and returned to London for four months each year. It was becoming more of a wrench to leave Jersey with every winter. However he had no fixed plans.

Patrick and he had remained close friends after sharing a pot of vegetable soup for four days when both men were without money or work at the beginning of Pete’s second season.

As Pete washed his face he was aware of a heavy smell drifting from the cubicles. Noticing two or three holidaymakers with wrinkled noses looking self-consciously about the room, he smiled inwardly.

A door clanged shut and old Patrick appeared, book in one hand. The other held his stomach.

‘Ah Jasus me guts.’ He shook his head mournfully as he crossed the damp floor.

‘You’re late,’ said Pete who was drying his neck.

‘Twenty-five minutes in the shit house? No bloody wonder boy.’ The old man stopped, ‘Where’ve you been the last couple o’ days?’

‘In town.’

‘Boy,’ said Patrick, ‘you’ll have no chopper left if you don’t slow down.’ Pete smiled following him from the washroom. The sun was streaming down. Old Patrick pulled his ancient bunnet down over his red, gnarled face.

‘Good Christ what a heat. Blind a man,’ he muttered as they walked to their tents.

‘Could have done well last night if you’d been in,’ he continued. ‘Plenty tourists about.’

‘I’ll be in tonight,’ said Pete, ‘although I’m pretty broke.’

‘Did you get a bit when you were in?’

Pete shrugged, ‘I’m saying nothing.’

The old Irishman snorted.

‘Don’t want to get you all worked up man,’ Pete said. ‘You might rape a cow or something.’

‘Ha!’ cried Patrick, ‘don’t worry about me boy. I don’t go short. Don’t worry about that.’ Pete burst into laughter and flicked his towel at him.

‘See you later you lying old bastard,’ he shouted.

‘Aye,’ called Patrick as they parted, ‘and you’d better bring some money ’cause I’m buying you nothing.’

They worked on different farms. Patrick drove a tractor for John Fasquelle down at St Martin and Pete worked near Grouville for Freddie Coffier. He cycled the three miles there and back on a ramshackle bicycle Coffier had given him. He was a good boss and Pete made his own hours, normally working from eight until five unless they were exceptionally busy. He was paid 6/6 an hour tax free and the farmer paid all his insurance.

Pete arrived home after five and boiled some freshly picked potatoes which he had with a frozen minute steak and the remaining half pint of milk. Some holidaymakers were eating dinner and a few were recuperating in the sun, dozing to Radio 1. Pete ate quickly then carried the dirty utensils to the washroom.

‘Hullo there.’

Pete stopped, seeing Dave approach.

‘Hullo Dave how are you doing?’

‘Okay. How was work?’

‘Too hot,’ Pete answered, ‘far too hot man.’

‘What are you doing now? I mean after, where are you going?’

‘I’ll be off for a few pints.’

‘To St Helier?’

‘No. Just down to the cross.’

‘The hotel?’

‘Yeah. The Queen’s. Fancy coming along?’

‘Yes,’ Dave looked pleased, ‘how long will you be?’

‘As soon as I do this lot,’ he looked at the utensils. ‘Ten minutes.’

‘Okay, I’ll go and get changed.’ Dave turned and walked off.

About twenty minutes later they met at the gate entrance to the campsite. Pete grinned to himself when Dave appeared wearing a suit and a shirt and tie.

‘Kind of formal man,’ he said. ‘The locals will take you for a tourist.’

‘Well it’s a hotel,’ he hesitated. ‘Oh who cares. I am a tourist anyway.’

Pete laughed, ‘I doubt if Patrick’ll even talk to you.’

‘The old Irishman?’ asked Dave.

Pete nodded. ‘Yes. The best domino man on the Channel Islands.’

‘Oh!’ Dave glanced sideways at him.

The Queen’s Hotel stood at the crossroads just under a two-mile walk from the campsite. It had a bar, a lounge and a fair-sized restaurant all of which opened seven days a week to resident and non-resident alike. The lounge was patronized by holidaymakers and wealthy retired couples in contrast to the large bar where the local farmworkers congregated. They were in the main Bretons and tended to drink in one large group by the bar. A few tourist husbands on the run from television lounges would end up here where they could have a quiet pint and perhaps a game of darts or dominoes.

When Pete and Dave entered the bar the Irishman was sitting near the group of Frenchmen, chatting to an old crony who puffed on a gray clay pipe. Pete asked Dave what he wanted to drink.

‘Pint of bitter and a pint of Guinness, Sam,’ called Pete to the barman.

He turned to Dave.

‘Notice how he never acknowledged it?’

Dave nodded.

‘That’s because I haven’t been in for two days. They think if you’re not here you must be in some other boozer spending the money.’

‘But you were,’ replied Dave grinning.

‘That’s not the point though.’ He shrugged, ‘What’s the difference?’

They carried their drinks to a table not far from the jukebox. Dave played three records and when he run on Pete said, ‘What do you do for a living man?’

‘I go up to University at the beginning of September.’

‘Very good,’ replied Pete seriously. ‘What do you intend doing afterwards?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he shrugged, ‘teach maybe. I don’t really know.’

‘Your parents want you to be a teacher?’

‘My mother does,’ he grinned wryly. ‘My father doesn’t care as long as I use my qualifications.’

Pete finished his pint and Dave rose, downing the dregs of his.

‘Same again?’ he asked.

Pete nodded and he walked to the bar to order. Pete sat back in his chair looking around the crowded room. He saw Patrick receiving a fresh pint at the bar. He waved and the old man strolled across the room.

‘Been in long?’

‘Half past four. I finished early.’ He gazed around the room, still standing holding his pint of Guinness. He smiled down at Pete and jerked his head.

‘Think we could get a game going boy. I’ll get the doms.’

‘By the way Patrick, there’s a young guy with me.’

‘Aye, I saw him.’

‘He’s camping with his parents up at the site.’

‘Is he now?’

‘Yeah, he’s okay.’

Patrick nodded and left for the bar as Dave returned with his round.

‘Do you play dominoes?’ asked Pete.

‘No, not really. Not since I was a kid.’

‘Well listen,’ he leaned across, ‘me and old Patrick usually get a game going.’

Dave nodded with the glimmer of a smile.

‘Partners you know? Just for pints,’ he grinned, ‘with the tourists.’

‘I see,’ Dave grinned back, ‘you mean you con them.’

‘Well we don’t really con them man, I mean they enjoy the game and once or twice we have been known to pay for an evening.’

‘Not very often though.’

‘Once or twice.’

‘In four years.’ Dave laughed, ‘I’ll enjoy watching.’

‘Right,’ said Pete.

Patrick came back with the domino box and board. Pete spread the pieces face down and shuffled.

‘Quick game of knockout eh? Miserable shillings OK?’

‘Does he know the game well enough?’ Patrick gestured vaguely towards Dave.

‘Enough to lose a couple of bob,’ Pete winked at Dave.

‘Looks like he’s going to the bloody dancing,’ grunted the Irishman.

They settled down to the game, playing steadily for half an hour before one man who had been spectating for two games asked if he could have a hand. Pete said yes and the fellow sat in. He was a Newcastle man and said his name was John and his mate who liked a game would be in in ten minutes. His mate duly arrived and was invited in.

‘If you don’t mind I’ll just watch,’ said Dave moving to another seat.

Old Patrick shrugged, ‘Fancy partners?’

‘Aye,’ said John, ‘mates. Fancy it Bert? Me and you eh? The old firm.’

‘Aye good idea Johnnie.’ Bert turned to the other two, ‘Half pints a corner eh?’

The two friends were on holiday with their wives and they were boarding together in a small hotel near St Martin.

After a comment on the weather the dominoes were shuffled and the men lifted six apiece.

‘Heh, heh. Is this what starts the game off then?’ asked John laying the double six on the board.

Pete smiled at him, Bert made no sign. Old Patrick farted loudly. The big game was under way.

Dave watched the first few games but soon lost interest apart from when he had to go to the bar for the losers’ rounds. After a while the stakes were raised to pints then eventually to shorts. Patrick and Pete were winning consistently now and Dave was being pushed an occasional whisky from Pete.

The bar was crowded now and a group of young men and women in yachting gear were standing by the counter drinking half pints of mild and trying to engage the French farmworkers in conversation. There were cries of ‘Oui’ now and then, and an occasional ‘Oo la la’ as one of the older Bretons slapped one of the young English women on the bum. Everyone was laughing and enjoying the fun.

About thirty minutes before closing time, Bert stood up after another defeat and sniffed.

‘Think I’ll turn in now. What about you John eh? Coming?’

‘Aye,’ replied John rising to his feet, ‘long day ahead of us tomorrow.’

‘Okay lads, good game,’ said Pete.

‘Not a bad game eh?’ John asked Patrick.

‘Played worse,’ agreed the old Irishman.

‘Aye!’ Bert smiled at last, ‘aye you’re too hot for us, lads. Come on mate,’ he emphasized the last word as he led his friend from the bar.

‘He wasn’t a bad player,’ said Pete.

‘Aye,’ Patrick nodded. ‘Don’t know where he found his friend though.’

Dave yawned, ‘What time do they close?’

‘About ten past eleven,’ replied Pete. ‘Think I’ve had enough myself. What about you Patrick?’

‘Think I’ll stay on for a few minutes.’

Dave stood up unsteadily holding on to the table.

‘Good night.’ Patrick knocked his pipe out and began cutting from a block of moist black tobacco. ‘Better take the boy home Pete,’ he grunted out the corner of his mouth.

Pete nodded and steadied Dave as they walked to the exit.

The path leading between the fields from the cross to the camp site had no lighting of any kind and when Pete had first come to the island courage had to be taken to walk home alone. Now being accustomed to the country he never gave the darkness a second thought.

Shortly after leaving the hotel Dave staggered up to a tree where he spewed and retched for a while. Pete was rather worried about any possible reaction from his parents. Bad examples, corrupting influences, etc. Still Dave was old enough to take care of himself.

‘Man you look really awful,’ said Pete sympathetically.

‘Oh God!’ Dave closed his eyes, both hands supported by the tree, he shuddered fitfully.

Later Pete asked him if he was able to continue the walk home.

‘Think so,’ mumbled Dave. ‘Feel bit better.’

‘Fine,’ said Pete pulling out a packet of cigarettes, ‘want a fag?’

‘No, no,’ groaned Dave shaking his head violently.

‘Okay, okay, sorry,’ said Pete quickly, adding, ‘come on, we better start or we’ll be here all night.’

He strode on and Dave lurched steadfastly after him. Ten minutes had passed before Pete stopped. He said, ‘Have to have a piss. You carry on man and I’ll catch you up.’

Dave nodded silently and staggered on up the track disappearing into the night.

Pete finished and lighted a cigarette feeling surprisingly well. Perhaps watching Dave had helped sober him up. Poor bastard. He hitched up his jeans and set off after him walking quickly. Probably find him lying in a ditch somewhere, good suit and all.

‘Ah! Aaah.’

A terrible cry rent the still night from a hundred yards ahead.

‘Ah God! Aaa.’

Pete stopped in his tracks. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said loudly.

He heard the sound of running footsteps increasing in volume then Dave burst into view sprinting madly.

‘Up there,’ he gasped. ‘Up there in the middle of the road.’

Pete looked and could see nothing. Dave tugged his arm.

‘Come on,’ he cried, ‘come on.’

‘Wait a minute,’ shouted Pete.

But too late. Dave was away and practically out of sight on his way back to the hotel.

As Pete stood wondering what to do old Patrick approached hurriedly.

‘Hoy Pete, what’s up with the kid? Nearly knocked me over the bloody fool.’

‘God knows Patrick. Something in the middle of the road.’

‘Aye he said something like that. Come on. Let’s find out.’

They set off walking side by side in case of emergencies, although neither admitted as much. Pete was whistling uneasily while Patrick’s pipe-stem seemed to be about to snap due to the pressure exerted on it by his false teeth.

As they turned a bend in the path they could vaguely make out a dark shape filling the pathway.

‘Jesus!’ Pete moved one pace forward and laughed with relief.

‘A cow!’ he said, ‘It’s a bloody cow.’

‘A bloody old cow,’ answered Patrick in disgust. ‘Just what you’d expect. You better go and find that boy.’

‘What about you? You not coming?’

‘Me?’ the old man snorted, ‘see you tomorrow boy.’

‘You rotten old bastard,’ said Pete grinning.

‘Bloody dancing he should’ve been, that’s what. Eh? Bloody dancing.’

Patrick laughed and lighted his pipe then, giving a wave, ambled on home.

Pete watched him go then turned and set off to discover whether Dave had reached St Helier.