“Why do that?”
“To make a point that we’re not European, we’re not British, we’re English and proud of it. Saint George is the bollocks. Fuck Saint Patrick and Saint…the other fuckers. I don’t want my kid to grow up a European, not knowing what a pint was. In this boozer the English pound is sacrosanct. None of that Euro shit. We’ve got more in common with the Russians than we have with the French or the Germans.”
“The Boche! The Frogs! Here, here! Fought them for a thousand years so why should we be friends now?” The colonel fingered his medals with knackered fingers that had once caressed the cold trigger of a red-hot sten. My God, how he had enjoyed killing jerry and, after a few gin and tonics, the Nips. Not that he was ever in the Far Eastern theatre, apart from in his dreams. But age and booze had a habit of mixing dreams with reality.
It was the colonel’s turn and Roger turned on him. “You’re an old soldier, we all know that, for Queen and Country, a Desert Rat. Bet you’ve still got your Jerboa shoulder flashes hidden away some place.” “Maybe I have. What of it? I was proud to belong to the Seventh. But the Queen?” She had always presented the serviceman with a dilemma. Think of the kraut connection. Not an easy thing to think about.
Roger said, “Although they are banned from this bar we’ve got enough queens around here. We don’t need another.”
They all looked at the faces in the room to make sure there had been no infiltration and noticed that one or two of the more dodgy customers were slipping quietly to the back.
Roger went on, “I don’t give a monkey’s fuck about the Queen or her fucked-up family but I suppose we should feel sorry for them. It must be a bind to be born knowing that you’d never have to do a day’s graft in your life.”
The colonel seemed embarrassed and looked from left to right and made a conscious effort to force his rigid shoulders – without the flashes – to stand at ease.
Roger was on a roll and continued, “And I want the Muslims to know they’re unwelcome.”
“They already do,” Albert said.
Nervous Sid’s face cracked into a dark question mark. He said, “Don’t get it.”
Roger explained, “Think about it. The Muslims in this country call themselves British, right? Well, if they’re British then I’m a fucking Chinaman. Also, in one hit, I can lose the Scottish, the Irish and the Welsh. Now that isn’t bad.”
Albert looked relieved and said, “I’m English.”
“No you’re not,” Roger said. “You’re a shonk. And when I change the name you’re banned along with everyone else. Never trust a shonk, mate. Turn your back on the fuckers and you’re likely to end up crucified.”
The colonel said, “Jew boys caused us a lot of trouble in Palestine. Fifty years later they’re still causing it.”
“They’re causing it in Westminster too.”
Albert looked saddened and his head began to shake, “An unfortunate appearance I have, a larger nose than most, but a Jew that does not make me.”
Roger said, “Maybe not, but I’ll guarantee what you haven’t got in your trousers does. Listen son, the English hate being lied to. That’s why we don’t like the Americans. We’ve seen your eyes when Sid brings in one of his rings. They light up like a couple of Roman candles. We can see them in the dark. Don’t come it with us. You might just as well try and hide a Scouse accent. You’re more Jewish than George Bush.”
Albert shook a flustered head. “George Bush isn’t Jewish.” “Isn’t he? Isn’t he? Well, the way he hates the Arabs he fucking well should be. But there’s something else about you, I’ve noticed, that marks you out as a child of Israel – apart from your bowing down to the golden calf, that is – you never smile. One day you’ll try it and your fucking face will fall off.”
Someone muttered – it might have been the man who looked like a double-glazing salesman but more likely it was Mr Lawrence, “It sounds like a load of old Cretan Bull to me,” but the others didn’t get it. They might have done had they been Greek.
Roger picked up a sign and began pinning it to the wall. It read: No bad language or drug taking will be tolerated. No children under 25. No trainers. No football shirts with the exception of Everton. White South Africans welcome.
The last bit excited the colonel and it showed in his eyes but surprisingly it didn’t bring any colour to his cheeks. He was tired and he knew it. It wasn’t just age that had crept up on him, but life itself. Or rather, it was this new age that had crept up, where values – oldfashioned values – had been worn away. He wondered whether winning the war had been worth it, particularly since Blair had come to power. The gradual intrusion of faceless bureaucrats into his and everyone’s life had been as imperceptible as it had been inexorable. It had been a ‘ death of a thousand cuts’. He was a slave in his own country. It would have been easier had the Nazi storm troopers kicked in his door for then he would have known the enemy. What Tony Blair and his cronies had done was nothing less than treason. How he wished to have those men in the sights of his old Lee-Enfield. The Somme, wasn’t it? He had been there, hadn’t he? It was all so damned hazy now, like Iwo Jima and My Lai. But how satisfying it would be to put a 303 into Blair’s grinning gob.
It was yet another dawn of disillusionment and dishonour, yet another cockcrow of contempt and another turning, in cold forgotten graves, for glorious forefathers.
He grimaced.
Christ! One of those storm troopers had shot him.
His mouth opened wide and left his false teeth hovering. Poligrip had not done the trick.
The stab of pain was deep.
He finished his drink, carefully placed his glass in the pool on the bar and sagged gently to his knees. His bony misshapen fingers felt for his medals and then clutched at his chest. He said, “Would someone be kind enough to send for an ambulance?” and then he keeled over on to his grey face.
Roger said, “If you're going to use the phone make sure you leave the money.”
Nervous Sid said, “999 is fucking free.”
“Is it? Is it? Make sure Gordon Brown doesn't hear about that!” Albert grunted, “The beer it must be.”
A bargirl dropped her filthy tea towel and burst into tears. Mr Lawrence doubted her sincerity for, as the late colonel had often said, women are good actors and can turn on emotion at the drop of a hat. Even so, it was a fair turn, and he watched her wailing and sniffing back her false tears. Eventually she gained enough composure to sob, “It wasn’t the beer. He was drinking gin and tonic. Maybe he didn’t exercise enough!”
And that had a few people, including the half-pint drinkers, raising their various eyebrows. A heart attack was one thing, but the thought of exercise was quite another.
Out of all that is bad comes an occasional good: lunch was extended. By the time the ambulance arrived, and the stretcher with its bearers, the colonel's medals had disappeared but Albert looked smugly satisfied, his chin beneath the fall of limp grey hair jutted higher and his eyes, black beads, concentrated on something on the ceiling. In each was the spark of a Roman candle.
It had been Albert who had leant over the colonel in what appeared to be an attempt at the kiss of life. He had pulled back at the last moment feeling faint at being so close to the ground, a sensation that tall men often experience.
He arrived back at the shop in a frivolous mood. He took off his hat and aimed at the hat stand and missed and his chortle could be heard on the pavement outside. He had all but skipped to the counter before he stopped abruptly and turned back to the window. There, with their backs to him, stood two splendid dummies, life-size and life-like: Father Christmas and a female assistant. Santa Claus carried a white sack overflowing with brightly wrapped presents and his assistant wore a red cape, some kind of red bodice, black suspender belt and nylon stockings.
For a moment Mr Lawrence was open-mouthed.
They stood either side of the ballerinas. Artificial snow frosted the window and covered the floor where they stood. The cold ivorycoloured skin of the mannequins glowed red as did the snow, caught in the soft glow of red window lights that blinked on and off. He wondered whether Santa's assistant went out in her underwear, and whether she'd feel the cold, or whether M amp;S or Robot City were searching for a missing mannequin complete with matching set.
Paul had crept back, like he had crept to the barber-shop, chancing that his suitor was elsewhere.
During the afternoon Mr Lawrence had an accident with the guillotine, although it wasn't entirely his fault.
