I say, ‘If you can’t see what’s under your nozzle. A new supermarket just up the road and they offer you first refusal as their meat manager. Aint got no choice, have you?’
He says, ‘Haven’t I?’
I say, ‘Stay put if you want. It’s your funeral.’
He says, ‘At least I’d be my own man.’
I say, ‘Your own man? You never were your own man. You were your old man’s man, weren’t you? What does it say over the shop?’
He looks at me as if he could knock me between the eyes.
He says, ‘That cuts two ways, don’t it?’
I say, ‘Don’t expect me to bail you out, that’s all,’ giving him a fiver. ‘Don’t expect nothing.’ Slipping him another fiver.
I say, ‘There’s ten, Jack. Go and buy your mates a drink. Buy one for yourself an’ all. Now I’m shoving off.’
And what did he ever do anyway? It was Amy. All he did was come home from winning the war and there I was – his welcome-home present – lying in that cot that was meant for June.
It’s got cruise control, power steering.
And there he was, forty-odd years later, lying with the tubes in him, his own bleeding man all right, and he says, ‘Come here, Vince. I want to ask you something.’ He don’t give it a rest.
It’s a beautiful car.
And that surgeon – Strickland – looks at me like I’m his next victim, like it’s me he’s going to stick his knife in. I think, It’s because he knows I’m not really next-of-kin. But then I think, No, it’s because the old bastard’s given him a hard time in the first place, and now this prick’s passing it on. It would be like Jack to give a hard time even to the man who could save his life.
He starts to explain. He says, ‘Do you know what your stomach looks like?’ as if I’m a complete arsehole.
He says, ‘And do you know where it is?’
It’s the only way I could think of it. Like doing a repair job. A rebore or something, a decoke. I don’t know how we work inside but I know a good motor when I see one, I know how to strip an engine. If you ask me, flesh and blood aint such a neat piece of work, not always, but a good motor is a good motor.
So Hussein better cough.
RAY
Jack would say, ‘Bunch of ghosts, that’s what you are in that office, Raysy. Bunch of bleeding zombies.’ He’d say, ‘You want to come up to Smithfield some time and see how real men make a living.’
And sometimes I did. In the early mornings, specially when it was all falling apart with me and Carol, when we weren’t even speaking. I’d slip out early and get the 63 as usual but get off two stops later and walk up from Farringdon Road, up Charterhouse Street, in the half light. Breakfast at Smithfield. We’d go to that caff in Long Lane or to one of those pubs that serves beer and nosh at half past seven in the morning. There was Ted White from Peckham and Joe Malone from Rotherhithe and Jimmy Phelps from Camberwell. And of course, in the early days, there’d be Vince, being trained up. Before he joined up.
They’d say, what you need, Raysy, is a good feed-up, you’re looking peaky. What you need is some meat on you. I’d say it was my natural build. Flyweight. Shovel it in, it don’t make no difference.
Strange thing but you never see a thin butcher.
He used to give me all that old Smithfield guff, all that Smithfield blather. How Smithfield was the true centre, the true heart of London. Bleeding heart, of course, on account of the meat. How Smithfield wasn’t just Smithfield, it was Life and Death. That’s what it was: Life and Death. Because just across from the meat market there was St Bart’s hospital, and just across from Bart’s was your Old Bailey Central Criminal Court, on the site of old Newgate prison, where they used to string ’em up regular. So what you had in Smithfield was your three Ms: Meat, Medicine and Murders.
But it was Jimmy Phelps who told me that when he said all that, he was only saying what his old man used to say to him, Ronnie Dodds, word for word. And it was Jimmy Phelps who told me, when Jack was well out of earshot, when Jack and Vince were loaded up and on the way back to Bermondsey, that Jack had never wanted to be a butcher in the first place, never. It was only because the old man wouldn’t have it otherwise. Dodds and Son, family butchers since 1903.
He says, ‘Do you know what Jack wanted to be? Don’t ever tell Jack I told you, will you?’ And his face goes half smiling, half frightened, as if Jack’s still there and might be creeping up behind him. ‘When Jack was like Vince is now, being ‘prenticed up, just like I was, he used to spend every spare minute eyeing up the nurses coming out of Bart’s. I reckon it was the nurses that did it, he thought every doctor got a free couple of nurses to himself, but he says to me one day, and he aint joking, that he could chuck it all up and tell the old man to stew in his own stewing steak, because what he really wanted was to be a doctor.’
Jimmy creases up. He sits there in his smeared overalls, hands round a mug of tea, and he creases up. He says, ‘He was serious. He said all it took was a change of white coats. Can you picture it? Doctor Dodds.’
But he sees I’m not laughing, so he sobers up.
‘You won’t tell Jack,’ he says.
‘No,’ I say, sort of thoughtful, as if I might.
And I’m wondering if Jimmy Phelps always wanted to be a butcher. I’m remembering what Jack said, in the desert, that we’re all the same underneath, officers and ranks, all the same material. Pips on a man’s shoulders don’t mean a tuppenny toss.
It wasn’t out of wishing it that I became an insurance clerk.
But I never did tell Jack, and Jack never told me. Though you’d think when he was lying there in St Thomas’s, with doctors and nurses all around him, it would have been a good time to let it slip. But all he said was, ‘It should have been Bart’s, eh Raysy? Bart’s, by rights.’
And it seems to me that whether he ever wanted to be a doctor or not, all those years of being a butcher, all those years of going up to Smithfield stored him up a pretty good last laugh against the medical profession. Because he tells me that when the surgeon came to see him for the old heart-to-heart, the old word in the ear, he didn’t want no flannel. No mumbo-jumbo.
‘Raysy,’ he says, ‘I told him to give me the odds straight. He says he aint a betting man but I winkle it out of him. “Let’s say two to one,” he says. I say, “Sounds like I’m the bleeding favourite, don’t it?” Then he starts up about how he can do this and he can do that, and I says, “Don’t muck me about.” I pulls open my pyjama top. I say, “Where d’you make the cut?” And he looks all sort of like his nose is out of joint and I aint playing according to the rules, so I say, “Professional interest, you understand. Professional interest.” Then he looks at me puzzled, so I say, “Don’t it say in that file of yours what I do for a living? Sorry, I mean ‘did’.” So he glances quickly down his notes – a bit sheepish now. Then he says, “Ah – I see that you were a butcher, Mr Dodds.” And I says, “Master butcher.” ’
BLACKHEATH
‘So anyone tell me?’ Vic says. ‘Why?’
‘It’s where we used to go,’ Vince says. ‘Sunday outings. In the old meat van.’
Lenny says, ‘I know that, don’t I, Big Boy? Think I don’t remember? But this aint a Sunday outing.’
I say, ‘It’s where they went for their honeymoon.’
Lenny says, ‘I thought they didn’t have no honeymoon. I thought they were saving up for a pram at the time.’
‘They had a honeymoon later,’ I say. ‘After June was born. They thought at least they should have their honeymoon.’
Lenny gives me a glance. ‘Must have been some honeymoon.’
‘It’s true, though,’ Vince says. ‘Summer of ’39.’
‘You were there, were you, Big Boy?’ Lenny says.
Everyone goes quiet.
‘From a meat van to a Merc, eh?’ Lenny says. ‘Come to think of it, Raysy, you weren’t around either.’
Vince is watching us in the driving mirror. You c
an’t see his eyes behind those shades.
I say, ‘Amy told me.’
Lenny says, ‘Amy told you. She told you why she aint come along an’ all?’
Everyone goes quiet.
Vic says, ‘Makes no difference, does it? Jack’s none the wiser, is he? As a matter of fact, I told her if she wanted to forget the whole thing he’d be none the wiser either. If they scattered the ashes in the cemetery garden, he wouldn’t know, would he?’
‘And you an undertaker.’ Lenny says.
I say, ‘She’s seeing June. Today’s her day for seeing June.’
‘That aint the point,’ Lenny says. ‘If Amy didn’t go to see June just for once, June’d be none the wiser either. June aint none the wiser about anything, is she? If Amy weren’t up to it, she could have waited till she was ready, it didn’t have to be done today.’
Vic says, ‘You shouldn’t judge.’
Lenny says, ‘Ashes is ashes.’
Vic says, ‘And best to do things prompt.’
Lenny says, ‘And wishes is wishes.’
Vince says, ‘How do we know he’d be none the wiser?’
Lenny says, ‘Not that I’m saying I’d be such a fool as to make such a wish myself.’
‘It wasn’t specific,’ I say.
Lenny says, ‘What weren’t specific?’
‘What Jack wrote. About his wishes. It never said Amy should do it, just that he wanted it done.’
Lenny says, ‘How d’you know that?’
‘Amy showed me.’
‘Amy showed you? Seems I’m the only one here who aint in the know.’ He looks out the window. We’re coming up on to Blackheath, past the back end of Greenwich Park. There are daffs out on the verges. ‘And Raysy here’s a mine of information.’
Vince is looking in the mirror.
Vic is getting all uncomfortable and tut-tutty, like it’s time to change the subject. He says, ‘It’s like the horses. Have to prise it out of him these days.’
Vic’s holding the box. I don’t think he should hold the box all the time.
Lenny says, ‘Even then, he gives you duff tips.’
I say, ‘Last tip I gave came good.’
Vince is still looking.
Lenny says, ‘Well it weren’t for any of us.’
Vic says, ‘Who, Raysy?’ Vic’d make a good referee.
I say, ‘Be telling, wouldn’t it?’
I look out the window. Blackheath isn’t black and it isn’t a heath. It’s all green grass under blue sky. If it weren’t for the roads criss-crossing it, it would make a good gallop. Highwaymen here once. Coaches to Dover. Your money or your life.
Vic says, ‘Well it’s still a mystery. Why Margate?’
Lenny says, ‘I reckon it was a try-on, just to see if we’d do it.’
Vince half turns in his seat. ‘So you think he does know? You think he can see us?’
Lenny blinks and pauses a moment. He looks at me, then at Vic as if he needs some of that refereeing.
‘Manner of speaking, Vincey, manner of speaking. Course he can’t see us. He can’t see nothing.’
Vic’s hands move a little over the box.
Then Lenny chuckles. ‘Mind you, Big Boy, if he can’t see us, if he can’t see nothing, why d’you go and borrow a Merc?’
Vince looks at the road ahead.
The sun’s sparkling on the grass. Jack can’t see it.
Vic says, slow and gentle, ‘It’s the gesture, Vince. It’s a fine gesture. It’s a beautiful car.’
Vince says, ‘It aint a meat van.’
VINCE
Jack’s eyes are shut, he looks asleep, and I think, I could just slip away, I could just sneak out, but if he’s not asleep he’ll know I’ve sneaked out, he’ll have tested me. So I say, ‘Jack?’ and he opens his eyes, quick as you like.
There’s that nurse on duty, Nurse Kelly, the one I fancy, black hair. I think, Given half the chance, I could try it on. Special circs, after all. Like when the world’s about to end. How about it, Nursey, you and me? I could sneak out with Nurse Kelly.
I say, ‘Amy said you wanted a word. Just you and me.’
He doesn’t say nothing for a bit, then he says, ‘I told Amy I wanted to see Ray. I told Amy to tell Ray to drop by’
He looks at me.
I say, ‘It’s me, Jack. It’s Vince.’ Because you can’t tell, what with the drugs. What with everything.
He says, ‘I aint lost my marbles.’ Staring at me.
I suppose he knows by now, really knows. Like it’s sunk in proper and he’s had time to live with it, live with it, and it’s not someone’s idea of a joke. Like someone tells you it’s the finish, but you hadn’t finished, you weren’t even close to finishing.
He must know. But I don’t know what it’s like to know. Don’t want to know either.
He says, ‘I know it’s you, Vince, and I know it’s me. You want to swap?’
I smile, sort of stupid.
He says, ‘Come here, Vince, I want to ask you something.’
It’s a wild night out, wet and windy. On the window at the end of the unit you can see the drops fluttering and fanning. But I don’t suppose it matters in here, what it’s like out there, rain or shine, it aint a major talking-point.
I think of Nurse Kelly going off-shift, wind up her skirt.
‘Come here, Vince.’
I reckon I’m close enough, but I shift up the bed a bit and I lean forward. His hand’s lying there on the bedclothes, the fingers half curled, the tapes and stuff further up on his wrist where the tubes go in. I know he wants me to take his hand. It shouldn’t be such a hard thing, to take his hand, but it’s as though if I take it, he’s got me, he won’t ever let go.
He says, ‘I told Amy I wanted a word with Ray, all alone.’
‘That’s good,’ I say. ‘Ray’s a mate.’
‘Ray’s a mate,’ he says.
He looks at me.
He says, ‘Amy don’t know what’s happening, does she? Amy don’t know if she’s coming or going.’
I say, ‘She’s okay, she’s managing. She’ll manage.’
Knowing she isn’t, even if she will. Knowing she’ll come into the spare room again tonight, where Mandy and me are sleeping, and want me to hold her and hug her, right there in front of Mandy, like I’m her new husband, like I’m Jack.
He says, ‘I’ve got the easier job.’
I look at him.
I say, ‘Don’t seem a doddle to me.’
He says, ‘People panic.’
Nurse Kelly’s bending over some other poor bastard. I used to say to him, when I first saw her, ‘You’ll be all right there, Jack, landed on your feet there.’ But I don’t now. I don’t know if it would be a torture or a mercy to be tucked up by Nurse Kelly when you’re pegging out.
Her name’s Joy. Nurse Joy Kelly. It says so on her badge, on her left tit.
Jack’s dying and I’ve got a cockstand.
He says, ‘So what did that geezer Strickland tell you? Before the op. Sweet-talk, you, did he?’
I think a bit then I say, ‘I can tell you now, makes no difference. He said you had a one-in-ten chance.’
He looks at me. ‘Ten to one. And you didn’t bet, did you? I bet you didn’t bet.’
I can tell he knows that I’ve known all along, somehow, that I haven’t wished or hoped.
Chips for you, Jack.
He says, ‘Help me up a bit, Vince,’ and he grabs my arm and I brace myself so he can pull himself up. It must hurt with that zip in his belly, there’s a purply stain on the bandage, but he doesn’t wince, he just hangs on while I shift the pillows with my free hand. He don’t weigh so much now. Big Jack.
He says, ‘That’s better.’ But as he says it I can see the spasm starting inside him, I can see his throat working. He’s going to fetch up some more of that muck. I grab a bowl from the stack and I get the tissues all ready. It’s like when Kath was little.
He settles back, wiping his mouth. I p
ut the bowl on the cabinet. He ought to look less like himself but he doesn’t, he looks more like himself. It’s as if because his body’s packed up, everything’s gone into his face and though that’s changed, though it’s all hollow with the flesh hanging on it, it only makes the main thing show through better, like someone’s turned on a little light inside.
I say, ‘What did you want to see me about?’ As if I’m a busy man and I’ve got to be getting along. It came out wrong.
He looks at me. He looks right into my face like he’s looking for a little light too, like he’s looking for his own face in mine, and it goes right through me, like I’m hollow, like I’m empty, that I haven’t got his eyes, his voice, his bones, his way of holding his jaw and looking straight at you without so much as a bleeding blink.
Then it wouldn’t be finished, it wouldn’t have to finish.
It’s like I’m not real, I aint ever been real. But Jack’s real, he’s realler than ever. Though he aint going to be real much longer.
He says, ‘I want you to lend me some cash.’
I say, ‘Cash?’
He says, ‘Cash.’
I say, ‘You need cash?’
He touches the drawer of his bedside cabinet. ‘I’ve got my wallet right here, next to my watch and my comb.’ He half pulls open the drawer, sort of cautious and secretive. It’s as though his whole life’s in there.
I say, ‘You need cash in here?’
He says, ‘I need cash, son.’
But it’s like I’m like his father now. Bedtime, Jack, no more larking about, I’ve come to say night-night.
I look at him and shrug and reach for my inside pocket but he grabs hold of my hand.
He says, ‘I was thinking of a thousand pounds.’
I say, ‘A thousand pounds? You want a thousand pounds?’
He says, ‘By Friday, let’s say. And not a dicky-bird.’
He looks at me, I look at him. He’s holding my hand. He says, ‘Don’t ask me, Vince, don’t ask me. It’s a request, it aint an order.’
I look at him. There’s the sign dangling over his head: NIL BY MOUTH.