Pecking Order (16 page)

After another ten minutes passed they had collected seven or eight sheets of signatures. But no extra people for the march. Clare looked at her watch. 'OK people, we only have police clearance to be on Williams Street until 12:30. We'd better get going.'

They were just gathering together when a couple of lads from the football team sauntered over.

'What is it? Ten pound rent increase?' asked one with a broad estuary accent, lower lip hanging down.

'Yes,' replied Clare eagerly, holding out a clipboard. 'Do you want to sign?'

'Ten quid?' He looked down at his brand new trainers, then pulled a wadge of notes from his pocket. Voice full of derision, he said, 'That's fucking peanuts.' He waved the money in front of her face. 'If you're finding it hard to afford your place, you can always spend a few nights at mine, like.' He gave a slow lick of his lips.

Catcalls sounded from the rest of the team behind. Clare lowered the clipboard and held up a finger. 'In your dreams you loser.'

Both lads started laughing and began stalking back to their mates. Once they were a few steps away the one with the new trainers turned round and said, 'You're probably a lesbian anyway.'

Clare was about to shout something back when Eric stepped between them, satchel under his arm. 'Is this student using sexually abusive language against you?' he asked sharply, peering questioningly at Clare.

She looked beyond the professor's pointing finger at the crestfallen footballer, the rest of his team dissolving away behind him. Discriminatory language of a sexual, religious or racial nature broke Union rules; all she had to say was yes and he'd get an official warning from the university. Probably a decent fine, too.

'It's all right. I've got more important things to do than waste time with him.'

'Oh, it's no waste of time, Eric replied. ‘I'll happily deal with it.' He turned to the footballer. 'Your Student Union card, please.'

The student weighed up the option of running for it, but Simon had stepped behind him and was waiting within grabbing distance. Reluctantly, he pulled out his wallet and produced his Union card. Eric noted his name down. 'I'll refer this to the Executive. You will, no doubt, be contacted soon.'

The young man walked quickly away, catching up with his mates as they loitered at the corner of the building.

'Thanks Professor,' said Clare, setting off down the main concourse. At the top of steps leading down on to Williams Street she stopped, noticing the two police cars parked half on the pavement below. She turned to her fellow marchers. 'Excellent, the police are already here. Who wants a whistle? I've only got three.'

As they headed down the steps and on to the pavement a policeman got out of his patrol car. 'Is this it?' he asked flatly, looking at the small group before him. 'Nine of you?'

Clare tried to sound positive. 'Absolutely! Can we get going?'

The policeman took a deep sigh and bent down to the driver's window of the first car. 'You might as well head off. No point in using two patrol cars for this.’

'Right, Sarge,' answered the driver. The car slipped into the traffic and disappeared.

Shaking his head very slightly, the police sergeant walked to the car behind and said to the driver, 'OK, I'll lead them on foot; you follow in the car behind. They're only going a few hundred yards.'

The driver nodded wearily and the blue lights on top of the patrol car began to silently flash. The car slowly edged into the road, blocking the traffic behind.

'Go on then,' said the sergeant, holding out both hands to the empty road in front. ‘Off you go.’

Clare held up her placard, inhaled deeply, and was just about to shout out her slogan when a voice robbed the breath from her lungs.

'Spare any change?' a slurred voice said.

She looked down and saw a man sitting with his back against the litterbin by the bottom step. She recognised him from the small park area on the campus; usually he sat on a bench, maroon beret on his head, waving a bottle of cider around.

'Sorry mate.' A reflex reaction, accompanied by an explanatory pat of an empty pocket. Slightly embarrassed, the rest of the group looked anywhere but at the man.

Clare raised her placard again and stepped into the road. 'What do we want?' she screamed.

The chorus sounded behind her, 'No rent increases!'

'When do we want it?'

'Now!'

Someone began blowing a whistle and the gaggle set off down the road, attracting the occasional beep from motorists passing in the opposite direction. Shoppers stopped to watch the tiny procession, quizzical expressions on their faces. Occasional smirks. Shadowing them on the pavement was Eric. He'd undone the flap of his satchel and was thrusting
Socialist Worker
leaflets into the hands of anyone who would take them.

After five minutes Clare's voice was growing hoarse. She turned around and, seeing Simon directly behind her, said, 'Fancy taking over for a bit?'

Cheers!' he answered eagerly, and spun around. As he walked backwards he began clapping his hands, 'No ifs, no buts, no rent subsidy cuts!'

The group seemed relieved at having something else to shout about and joined in the chorus with renewed enthusiasm. Clare lifted the whistle hanging around her neck and began blowing quick blasts in time to Simon's clapping.

A short while later, they reached the east entrance to the university campus. The smell of food from a Louisiana Fried Chicken take-away hung in the air around them. They gathered on the pavement and the driver of the police car pulled up beside them so his colleague could climb back in.

As Clare thanked them, Eric handed out two leaflets to a couple of young men in suits coming out of the take-away joint. One, cheeks bulging with chicken burger, accepted Eric's leaflet and looked at the headlines of, Blair-faced liar! Government reneges on another key promise! Smash the capitalist con artists!

The police car quickly accelerated away, allowing the backlog of traffic to finally speed up. Someone pressed a car horn. Another joined in and the students turned to the road, a couple holding up thumbs to say thank you for the support. But the driver, with his hand hanging out of the window, had curled his fingers and thumb into a circle. Slowly he began shuffling his hand up and down, a look of contempt on his face.

A mini cab driver had wound down his window, and as he passed the huddled group, he shouted in a heavy local accent, 'I've just missed my fare you bunch of pricks!'

Clare looked uncertainly at her fellow protesters. 'I think we'd better get back on campus.'

As she went to try and lead them away, the suited man asked Eric very politely, 'Are you a student or a lecturer then?'

Eric nodded, 'A lecturer.'

‘Then what the fuck,' he went on, voice suddenly hostile, 'are you handing this shit out for? What are you paid, around thirty grand?'

Behind them the traffic was speeding up.

Someone yelled, 'Fucking student twats!'

Eric calmly said, 'It's hardly relevant what I earn.'

‘It is in my opinion,' answered the man. 'There you are, claiming a nice big salary off the Government - the capitalist Government that pays your wages from my fucking taxes.'

'But it needn't be this way,' said Eric, face reddening. 'The system could be so much better. Fairer.'

'I'm happy enough, mate,' said the man, holding up the burger. 'I'm free, I'm full and I'm off to get pissed. My only complaint about this system is parasites like you.'

Eric looked at the man; an office-worker, no doubt. Existing from Monday to Friday, living for the weekends. He saw the reconstituted chicken meat hanging from the bread-roll, grease staining the disposable napkin it was wrapped in. He didn't know where to start.

At that moment an empty coke can was thrown from a car. It bounced off a placard and clattered to the pavement. 'Wankers!' someone shouted.

The man took a massive bite out of his burger as he and his friend began to walk away.

'Um, let's get through the gates,' said Clare uneasily, and they all moved quickly towards the entrance. 'Professor, are you coming with us?' asked Clare, trying to give Eric a dignified way out.

Eric stood rooted to the spot. 'No,' he answered softly. 'No, don't mind me. I must be elsewhere.' Without saying goodbye, he strode off back in the direction they had just come.

Chapter 23

Eric walked angrily along the campus perimeter. A short distance behind him, the university grounds opened into a small area of parkland, on the other side of which were a few halls of residence.

During the day it was the domain of students and drunks, often both. At night the atmosphere changed, despite the globe-shaped lamps lighting the pathways. A series of rapes a few years before and regular reports of students being jumped by local lads ensured most people skirted round the park once it was dark. Deciding he needed to sit down for a while, Eric slipped through the next gap in the fence and, looking for a bench, set off along a footpath that lead between the rhododendron bushes. Soon he heard some slurred mumbling and as he entered a small clearing, he saw the beggar he'd noticed during the march, slumped on a bench. A three-litre bottle of cider was clutched between his knees. Empty cans of Tennent's Super lay at his feet. Despite the warm weather he wore a threadbare blazer, woollen jumper and grey trousers, shiny at the knees.

Eric hesitated, wondering whether to turn back or stick to his side of the clearing and creep past. But the man's head lolled round and he said, "ternoon to you, sir.' A hand went up to his temple and he flicked a feeble salute.

Eric realised he knew him. When he was a social worker, the man's wife had been one of his cases. She had developed senile dementia and it was Eric's responsibility to arrange home help and, eventually, a permanent bed for her in a care home. Her husband's inability to assist in anyway had infuriated him.

The man was ex-armed forces, a paratrooper, if his memory served him correctly. That in itself was enough to provoke Eric's disdain, but the husband also seemed incapable (or unwilling as Eric suspected) of cooking or cleaning. Meals-on-wheels ended up providing for them both. All the man wanted to do was drink.

After his wife died he went further downhill, frequently turning up at the soup caravan Eric used to work in as a volunteer during the evenings. As the junkies used to descend from their shooting gallery on the top of a nearby multi-storey car park, he would come lurching down the road. Barely able to spoon the food into his own mouth, he was frequently sick on the kerb.

'Mr Aldy, how are you?'

The man fought to get himself upright, squinting hard and trying to make out who he was talking to. 'It's Eric, from the soup run.'

The old man's eyes narrowed even further as he grinned. Four teeth left in his head, lips curling inwards over bare gums. 'G' bless you, Eric. Have a seat, here.' He went to pat the bench by his side but missed. He began keeling over and Eric had to move fast to push him back upright.

'How are you Bert? Having a celebration?'

The man's chin had sunk on to his chest and he was staring at the ground beyond his splayed feet. "bration, indeed.' He suddenly realised he was still holding a bottle of cider. 'Drink?' He struggled upright and lifted the bottle from his lap. It swayed in front of Eric.

'No thanks Bert,' said Eric, guiding it back between the grey flannel knees. 'And how are you keeping?'

The rumble came from far back in the his throat, 'Ooooooh not so bad, 'kyou.'

Eric searched the ground around the bench. 'Where's your beret Bert?' he asked loudly.

'Uh?'

'Your beret, from the paratroopers.'

'Kids. Kids have taken it. Taken the lot. Jus' my clothes lef now. 'roken the door in. Can't even lock it.'

After Bert's wife had died, Eric arranged for him to be moved to a smaller council flat. It had been burgled repeatedly. First the electrical goods. Then other small items, including his medals. Next time the furniture and kitchenware. And now, it seemed, anything that could be worth a few pounds.

The man's eyes had closed and his breathing had begun to deepen. Eric looked at the folds hanging beneath his chin, hanging over his collar, top button done up. He couldn't stop himself asking, 'Still in the same flat, Bert?'

The old man didn't reply.

Eric leaned a little closer, 'Still in 50 Wood Road?'

 "ty woo droad,' he mumbled.

'That's still your present address?'

‘Mmmmmm.'

Unsure if that was a yes or a no, Eric asked, 'Is that where you live now Bert?'

In reply the man let out a pig-like snore.

Frustrated, Eric got quietly to his feet, leaving the man to his drunken slumber.

Chapter 24

'It was absolutely, ab-so-Iute-Iy, hideous,' sobbed Clare, writhing on her back, a cushion over her face.

In the armchair next to her, tears were coursing down Zoe's cheeks. 'Nine? Only nine of you?' She burst into a fresh fit of laughter. 'Oh my God. What did the policeman say again? Go on, tell me.'

She could hear Clare's muffled shouts of, No, no, no! coming from beneath the cushion, so she leaned forwards and dragged it off her friend's face. 'Tell me!'

Clare got a grip on herself, sat upright and took a deep breath. 'He...' her voice was barely under control, '...he said, is that it?'

They both fell back in their seats and began howling at the ceiling once again.

'Nightmare,' said Zoe, reaching for the half-burned joint in the ashtray. She sparked it up again and took a long drag. From the sofa Clare put on a local accent and said, 'I've missed my fare you pricks!'

Smoke erupted from Zoe’s nose and mouth in a series of little clouds. 'Bitch!' she spluttered, flinging the joint at her friend and doubling over in a coughing fit.

Clare quickly fished it out of her lap and took a couple of drags herself. She rolled her eyes up and said, 'It must be top three for my most cringeworthy experiences ever. It's up there with the apple in the fishpond outburst.'