Say Goodbye to the Boys (4 page)

The room had nearly as many books as my father's shop, most of them open, as if he read a line here, a line there. A good stock of empty bottles too. We planted him in a chair, tugged off his boots and propped his feet up on a stool.

Emlyn brought a blanket from the bedroom, and as he spread it over him he sang:

You have a kind face you old bastard,

You ought to be bloody well shot;

You ought to be tied to a lamppost,

And left there to bloody well rot!'

Amos Ellyott giggled helplessly. ‘Thank you kind boys,' he said, ‘and thank you for the
Macaulay
.' He was snoring as we went out.

‘What made you take him the book?' I said when we reached the street.

‘Found a copy of it at home. Least I could do. They've got the old bugger's obituary notice written...'

‘The trouble with you,' I said, ‘is that you're too bloody pleasant.'

There was a mist down, already an occasional bray from the sirens of the big ships out in the estuary.

‘It's a mortuary this place,' I said. We sat on a bench on the promenade, the mist forming around us, and Emlyn talked about smoky clubs and night people and coloured lights and music.

Not everyone in Maelgwyn had settled down for the night. Out of the mist, dressed in a polo necked sweater and shorts, MT Edmunds came running.

‘Philip, Emlyn, how wonderful!' He was running on the spot as he talked. ‘I'm killing two birds with one stone!' He showed us a bundle of posters. ‘Keeping fit and spreading the word. The revival of the town! The Carnival day, the Sports Day – a poster on every lamp post. We don't expect anything too brilliant this year, but no matter. To begin is enough.' And he went on like that, and I remembered someone saying that MT was thick as two short planks and that even his wife had stopped feeding money into the business.

‘Must be off,' he cried out. ‘Like fire in the lungs, this air. Good night to you boys!' He went off at a sprint.

‘He never asked about Mash,' Emlyn said. ‘I wonder if word's getting around?'

‘Keeping an eye on the situation, you mean?'

‘Could be. My dad says that business is running down. My dad says that old Georgie Garston is all set to buy MT out.'

‘Knows everything, your dad.'

Emlyn laughed. ‘That's why the old bugger went bankrupt.'

Tuesday night, the dead night of the week. Made for a visit to Lilian and her soft, fat fingers dealing out the cards. But that wasn't possible any more.

IV

 

 

 

 

Mash had an arm lock on Emlyn's neck. He was swinging him around above the black mud. Emlyn's face was purple, his eyes staring, glazed. There was blood on them both, and I stood there and did nothing.

That day we had all been taken with a need for work and applied ourselves to the
Ariadne
. I was up on deck, caulking yet another seam. I could hear them chatting below me on the mud, and I was thinking how close they had always been, a private understanding between them. And I heard a shout, sounds of a struggle, and thought that Emlyn had started ragging about. There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of heavy breathing, and I went over the side to look.

It was minutes before I realised what was happening. And all I could do was shout, ‘Hey Mash! For Christ's sake put him down! You're killing him!'

I grabbed Mash's arm and tried to break the lock. His muscles were steel hard. I kicked at his shins. ‘Let go you stupid bastard!' I hit him in the kidneys, as hard as I could, and he grunted and sent me sprawling with one sweep of his free hand. I picked myself up off the mud and went skidding back to them. Emlyn was still conscious, kicking and jabbing at Mash without any effect. ‘For fuck's sake, Mash, put him down!'

Mash's eyes were closed. I saw the muscle on his arm bulge as he tightened his grip. Then I had this old stick in my hands. God knows where it came from. It was there under the seaweed and I had it in my hands, and I was telling Mash I'd brain him. Emlyn's legs went limp. I aimed for the tip of Mash's elbow, gave it all I had and felt the sting of the blow in my hands. Mash gave a great howl and dropped Emlyn, and I stood facing him, swinging the stick, waiting.

He had one hand clamped on his elbow. ‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus,' he was saying. He sank to his knees still saying it. Then in a broken voice, added, ‘Philip – what did you do that for?'

I tossed the stick aside and knelt by Emlyn and turned him over. There was blood coming from his nose. I saw his eyelids flicker and raised him to a sitting position and held his head between his knees.

Mash was at my side, full of concern. ‘What happened to him, Philip? What happened to Emlyn?'

I sent Mash to the river to fetch some water. He came back with a bucketful and I set to work on Emlyn's face. He came round quickly, retching and spluttering. ‘Jesus Christ, that's salt water,' I heard him say, and I felt better. I told Mash to get up to the cabin and put a kettle on the stove for some tea. ‘Yes, Philip,' he said, like a child pleased at being sent on an errand.

‘What the fuck happened?' Emlyn had a coughing spell and did a great deal of spitting. He held both his hands around this throat. ‘Oh, shit!' he said in a croaking voice, said it again and again.

‘He nearly had you...'

‘You don't have to tell me.'

‘What started it? Were you fooling about or what?'

He drew a long, ragged breath into his lungs and slowly heaved himself to his knees. ‘We were working just there.' He pointed to a patch at the bow of the boat. ‘We were chatting, singing a bit.' I helped him to his feet. ‘Shit! There wasn't an argument, even.'

‘You didn't say anything to get him mad?'

‘How the hell can I remember? We were just chatting. When suddenly he goes for me. Throws a punch and catches me here.' He touched the pulped skin above his ear. ‘I didn't even go back at him.'

‘You didn't say anything – you're sure?'

He shook his head. ‘Philip?' Again the appeal. ‘He just went for me. Did you ask him?'

‘Doesn't know what happened,' I said. I told him about the stick. We stood there for a while just looking at each other, then I helped him up the ladder.

In the
Ariadne
's cabin Mash was pouring boiling water into the mugs. I told him to put tea in first, and he blushed and said ‘Oh hell – I forgot.' Then we sat, Mash and I on one side, Emlyn on the other. Mash talked, even quoted the line about “Summer's warm face”, and I kept asking myself how he could forget so easily. Emlyn was slumped on the seat, streaks of mud, blood on his face and chest, trying to sip the tea and finding it painful to swallow. And Mash there, as if he didn't notice, as if Emlyn always looked like that.

‘When I was in the unit,' Mash said brightly, ‘we used to say roll on demob – every day. Roll on fucking demob. Roll on fucking demob – every day.' His round, firm jaw twitched as he searched for more words. A silence fell over the cabin. I could hear the gulls outside.

‘OK, you all right now?' I asked Emlyn.

‘Except that I've been through the mangle,' he croaked.

Then Mash spoke up again. ‘We were away when it happened. There was this man who was burnt to death on the coast road there. You heard about it?'

How had it got onto that tack, I wondered. ‘Yeah, some Yank,' I said, ‘up on Morwyn Hill. Car he was in caught fire.' Why the hell were we talking about this?

‘You heard about it, Philip? Where was I then?' He shook his head. I remembered Laura sending me a cutting from the local paper about it. Oh shit – would he go for Emlyn again? Would there be a stick next time? ‘But Philip – you see he was burnt to death in pound notes,' Mash went on eagerly. ‘He had this car and it was full of pound notes. Now – that's a fact. Burnt to death in pound notes!'

‘Oh Christ,' Emlyn sighed. ‘Philip – I have to go. Got to get some air by myself.' He slid along the seat then ducked his head as he went out. We heard the pad of his shoes on the deck above us, then silence. When I went out on deck he was walking in the black mud at the river's edge, shoulders hunched.

Mash said, ‘In pound notes, Philip. Burnt in pound notes.'

‘Come on Mash,' I said, knowing even then that it was hopeless, ‘what the fuck were you doing? Why did you go for him like that?' And all he did was look at me, a flat, blank look. Was it possible for someone to be like that? ‘Oh come on,' I said, ‘let's get some work done.'

We worked together all afternoon, and he broke into song every now and then. The day shone like a pearl. You could see the little town from the river, sleeping there among the sand hill. Nothing changed whilst I had been away. Except the people. I looked at Mash. Had he attacked me it would have made sense. I was the third man, never as close... Unless – it was a piercing thought – Emlyn had paid Lilian a visit and Mash had seen him or heard about it.

‘Philip – did Emlyn fall?' Mash squatting on the deck. ‘I must have fallen as well. Seen my elbow?'

‘The fact of the matter,' Laura said, ‘is the shop's only just paying its way...'

‘All right,' I said, ‘I'll get a job.'

‘You write off for one of them grants for college. Like Mr Wilkins says...'

We were having a mug of tea outside the shop and the conversation was about normal for that time of day. Across the Hall I could see the German at his stall, a crowd around him, one of the attractions – he was lately the enemy.

‘Think about it,' Laura advised. She was a good looking woman still, and lumbered with me.

‘You marry Will Wilkins, that's the solution.'

‘Oh, get lost,' she replied, embarrassed yet pleased. She lifted her feet and examined her shoes. ‘Are you trying to get rid of me, boy?'

‘We could get rid of him, after he's made his will...'

‘Oh, terrible you are. Awful.'

Ceri Price, who had been with me at school, walked up at that moment.

‘I was telling him he's awful,' Laura said to her.

‘He always was,' Ceri said. A small, quiet girl at school, but most definitely blossoming now. ‘My father's mad for a book of poems by Yeats – he gets these fancies.' Her father was the local reporter, known as Price the Scoop. He was a poet too.

I took Ceri into the shop, Laura giving me a knowing wink, and I learnt that she was studying the piano in London and term had just finished, and that's why I hadn't seen her around. I had a date for the pictures, outside the Regal at 7.30, in no time at all, and I rejoiced as I stood with Laura and watched her walk away.

‘Hasn't she got lovely eyes?' Laura said. ‘And her hair – just like a film star.' I didn't correct her. Laura loved the pictures, but Will Wilkins wasn't so keen. She liked a glass of stout too, but he was a strict teetotaller. ‘You wouldn't really want me to marry again, would you?'

‘Like that, is it?'

She blushed like a young girl. ‘I've got a feeling I may be asked, that's all.' Then she got flustered and picked up her handbag and headed for the Ladies – a place she never used...

‘You took Ceri Price to the pictures?' Emlyn said. ‘My God, come and join us! Anything doing?'

‘I never tried.'

‘As bad as that? Have another pint. You can pay. I'm using the Amos Ellyott system.' We were in the King's Arms, our favourite pub. It was Friday night, the doors and windows open wide, a summer wind coming in off the estuary. Emlyn was wearing a silk scarf to hide the bruising on his throat. He had dispensed with the plaster above his ear. He looked dapper, like something off the fag adverts.

‘Three pints of best bitter,' I said, placing the drinks on the table. ‘Hey where are you off to?' I asked Mash.

Mash pointed silently to the gents. I took the chance to ask Emlyn how they had got on that day.

‘Fine,' he replied. ‘Everything's OK.' He raised his glass and drank.

‘Yes, but what did Mash say? Did you talk it out with him?' There was no response from Emlyn. ‘I asked you a bloody question.'

He placed his elbows on the table, cupped his face in his hands. ‘Not the real question, though, was it?'

‘What d'you mean?'

‘What you want to know is did Mash go berserk because he saw me coming out of Lilian's,' he grinned. A challenge on the table, and I was about to take it up when he said, ‘Oh God, look who's here.'

MT came sweeping in, called four pints as he passed the bar and planted himself at our table.

‘Hasn't it been a wonderful day?' he said.
‘Marvellous! Absolutely marvellous. Like the
summers of old. We can only pray' – he looked up at the ceiling – ‘that it holds for carnival week.' The sun had left blisters on his forehead. ‘The first step back on the road to recovery.' The barman placed four pints on the table. ‘Thought I'd join you for a little session,' he said, and cleared the best part of his pint in a couple of noisy gulps.

‘Didn't know you were a drinking man,' Emlyn said.

‘It used to be fifteen pints a night back in the old rugger days.' He gave Mash a friendly punch as he rejoined us. ‘My God, I've sunk some stuff in my time. You boys – drink? You've no idea...' and he went rambling on about the times he'd had, and calling out for more pints from the bar. Emlyn and I had them lined up, but Mash who had the bigger capacity kept up with him and seemed to be the only one who was listening to him too. ‘We used to drink the bars dry. But never mind about ancient history...'

‘Hear, hear,' Emlyn said.

‘Now is what counts. There's going to be a renaissance in the old town. My committee's organised. The carnival entries are pouring in. And the sports day – you've got to enter, all three of you.'

‘We've retired, haven't we, Philip?' Emlyn said.

‘Nonsense! It'll be fun. The amateur spirit.' He'd finished another pint. ‘To the bar!' His face was red and sweaty now. ‘It's my treat.'

‘Then leave me out,' I said.

But he was up and off to the bar, booming four pints, best bitter.

‘Marshall, speak to your father,' Emlyn said. Mash smiled and shrugged his huge shoulders and retired into his own silence. MT returned, slopping beer all over the table, breathing hard. ‘How are we doing?' He said, clapping me on the back.

‘I'm sinking,' I said.

‘Nonsense!' he said and went stamping out to the gents.

‘Our night for getting drunk under the table,' Emlyn said. ‘Shall we join in?'

‘You're on your own, mate' I said.

Emlyn smiled. By the time MT returned he had finished off a glass and was half way down the next.

‘My God,' MT said, ‘those were the days. Old Tubby Moore, Ted Francis and me – remember me telling you, Marshall?' Mash nodded. ‘We had this old Morris. We'd tear up and down the countryside for the women and the pints.' Emlyn winked at me and carried on drinking. ‘We were like you – roaring boys! My God, it's a good drop, isn't it? Shall we have some whisky chasers? That's what we had in the old days. Whisky chasers...'

‘Not me,' I said hastily. I'd had enough. But Emlyn, amiable as ever, said whisky chasers would be fine. He wasn't breathing heavily; he wasn't slopping beer all over the place; he wasn't even red in the face.

Half past nine and MT was showing signs of wear, only occasionally coherent. ‘You three can be marshalls at the sports day,' he announced at one point, ‘then I'll have three marshalls, won't I?' By closing time he was gone, his mouth slack, beer dribbling down his chin and on to his shirt.

Emlyn looked none the worse for wear. ‘Better see him home,' he said to Mash, and Mash went to his father's side. ‘That's my boy,' MT said. ‘Dear old pals, eh? It's been bloody marvellous!' They went lurching across the room, nearly taking the door with them.

‘Wait for me outside,' Emlyn said. ‘I'm going to be sick.'

‘What was that all about?' I asked him as we walked in the soft summer dark.

‘Poor old MT. Come to drink us under the table. Well – he's ruined my acid/alkaline balance for sure.'

‘You didn't have to take him on.'

He belched. ‘No. But it was expected of us. He wanted to show Mash what a boy he can be with a glass in his hand.'