Blasted Things by Lesley Glaister

Author:Lesley Glaister
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781913207137
Publisher: Sandstone Press Ltd
Published: 2020-01-27T16:00:00+00:00

22

‘THREE PINTS OF best,’ a bloke orders, a young regular, though the name escapes Vince as they natter about the weather, Ireland, Saturday’s match. But he can hardly keep a straight face, can hardly contain himself. She’s going to pay him to ‘sit’? To ‘sit’! Fancy being paid to sit! It’s priceless – but that’s the joke of it; it’s precisely not priceless. Pricey’s more like it, pricey for her. He takes the money, gives the change, nice satisfying ring of the till, rubs his hands. He can string it out – to kingdom come if need be. Her pale eyes come to him, how they pinked up when her story came out. Truth be told, he felt sorry for her: but she hardly needs pity, married to a doctor, living in that bloody great house. Talk about falling on your feet!

‘And a port and lemon for the lady.’ It’s the butcher from Seckford, didn’t catch what else he wanted. Concentrate, and go on about the weather again, Ireland, the match. He’d love to tell Doll about getting paid for sitting on his arse! But she might not like it in a man, might think it makes him sound like a right nancy boy; best keep it quiet.

She comes out with a plate of ham sandwiches and puts them on the bar. He takes the money for the butcher’s drinks. Doll pulls a pint now, gives him a look, nods at a table of empty glasses.

It’s mid-evening of a Friday, busiest night of the week, and she’s got a navy gingham dress on, hair piled high, rouge on her cheeks, all corseted up. Why does she have to go and do that? It gives her a battleship shape instead of all that softness; still, it does make a man proud to be associated. They still haven’t had their ‘little talk’. Perhaps it’s all blown over whatever it was, ten to one some tizzy about nothing.

‘Just popping upstairs to see Kenny’s in bed,’ she says, hand brushing his arm. ‘Ten minutes.’

He pulls a couple of pints of stout, laughs at a joke he’s heard a hundred times, fishes some pickled onions from the jar; all the regulars in tonight plus some passing trade, and there’s the thwack of darts, the rattle of dominos, but above all the babble and shout of the end of the week, there’s Clarke who comes in of a Friday, regular as clockwork with his mates to play cards – all of them missing something, a leg or both or an arm or a hand, and that one, Ellis, is it? Missing both arms and an eye.

‘Pint of Adnams, if you please, sir.’ Vince turns, a greeting rising to his lips, and it’s only bloody Ted Chamberlain after all these weeks. His heart plummets like a lead weight. Didn’t expect to see him again, but here he is, large as life, moustache like a bloody great dead hamster on his lip.

‘Coming up,’ Vince says, holding a tankard, a little chipped, he sees too late – oh well, under the tap.

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