Chapter Eight
Carmelite Street I knew to be somewhere in the shadow of Leetham's Flour Mill, which was nigh-on five times higher than the terraces roundabout. Evening was coming down fast as I walked towards the mill, which had three silos, like cricket stumps, connected at the top by the conveyor, which was like the bails. On its other side, the mill looked onto, and dropped things into, the River Foss, which ran along as best it could between the little terrace houses of Layerthorpe. No trippers came this way; the Illustrated Guides had nothing to say about Layerthorpe, except maybe to warn strangers off.
Carrying my bagful of Railway Magazines, I entered a dead-end street. At the bottom of it was a wall covered in an advertisement for boot polish. It held a picture of a bootblack calling 'Shine, sir?' then, in bigger letters 'SHINE, SIR!' Wouldn't take no for an answer, that one.
I turned right down an alleyway between two houses, just in time to see a kid boot a dead rat along the road. Above his head, a wooden sign stuck between the two walls read: 'The Tiger'. That was another pub to be found somewhere in this maze, but it was a couple of minutes more before I came on the one I wanted.
There was no garden and there was no gate, and there was hardly any pub come to that. It was just one thin house in the terrace. Above the door and to the right, a tiny tin sign said 'ALES', like a stamp on a letter. The words 'Garden Gate' were spelt out in small white letters on the black door. I stood there picturing every kind of York cadger and area sneak putting back beer inside. I pushed at the door, and walked in.
His cap was off, and his hair was round and white like a jellyfish, but it was the big oaf, the Blocker, all right – standing just inside the door with his coat open in a tiny blue room filling with smoke from a badly laid fire, which set my eyes stinging straightaway. The Blocker seemed to be looking directly at my glass-less spectacles. Then, to my relief, he turned away Approaching the bar, I glanced down and noticed my wedding ring. Allan Appleby was not a married man. I pulled it off as I stepped up to buy a drink. Serving on was an old fellow who stared at me all the while as he raised up a pewter of beer from somewhere below the bar. Leaning on the bar to my left was another elderly party, like the barman seen in a looking glass. And there was another present, sitting by the fire on a rocking chair: the Brains, the dip who haunted the Scotch expresses.
A bottle of stout was on the floor by the side of his chair, and he was raising and lowering two long keys on a rusty ring that hung from the end of the longest finger of his right hand. He sat in his coat, but his hat was off, and he had scant black curly hair and sleepy eyes. He looked like a musician, I thought, and I wondered why he could not have put his long fingers to better use by learning to play the mandolin, or some such thing.
He was watching me as I walked towards the bar, and the Blocker spoke up as I walked past, but I didn't catch the words. I ordered a pint of Old, drank it off fast with shaking hands; ordered another. I stood side on to the bar, my portmanteau at my feet. The Blocker was leaning on the door, blocking it, giving me the eye. The Brains was still playing with the long keys. Taking a deep breath, I pitched in: 'I'd be obliged for another glass of Old,' I said to the barman, 'and two more for these lads.' I pointed at the Blocker, and the Brains. They were looking back at me, holding fire, waiting further developments. Then, as the landlord started to pull the beer pump, I added: 'Can you not do owt about your fire?' 'Want more coal on it, do you?' he said. 'Less, if anything,' I replied, 'and a little air put to it, perhaps.' This drew the Blocker, who said: 'Who are you giving orders to?' 'Nobody,' I said. Silence again. The Brains had put down the keys, folded his arms. He was watching me. It was the old barman who spoke next: 'Are you a sanitary inspector by any chance?' he said. I shook my head. 'Because you better fucking not be,' called out the Blocker. The drinks were now being set on the bar. I put one on the fireside table in front of the Brains; handed one to the Blocker. On receiving the ales, neither man said anything; but they continued to stare. At last, the Brains spoke up: 'I'm obliged to you for the pint,' he said, 'but what's it in aid of?' 'Just being hospitable,' I said. 'But the Gate's our boozer,' said the Blocker, 'so by rights, it's up to us to be hospitable to you.' As he spoke, I heard a sound from the direction of the door. It was the Blocker, sliding home the bolt. A longish silence, broken once again by the Blocker: .. Speaking of hospitals' he said, 'you're going just the right way to ending up in one.' 'I've come to see you specially, like'1 said. The Brains said: 'How did you know we were here?' 'Might as well give out that I followed you last night' I lied. 'But we never came here last night,' said the Brains, sounding curious more than anything, 'not directly at any rate.' 'That's right,' I said. 'I know it is' said the Brains. 'You went somewhere else beforehand' I said. 'Where, for Christ's sake?' 'Over yonder,' I said, moving my hand so as to maybe indicate everywhere else in the city. 'But where exactly?' asked the Brains, almost smiling. 'You went to a pub' I said. Well, it seemed a fair hazard. 'What bloody pub?' said the Blocker, impatient. 'Don't recollect the name' I said. 'I'd spotted the pair of you at the station, see? A chap had on a very heavy coat. And you lightened it for him. It was a very good bit of work.' The blackness rolled from the fire; the old boy at the bar said another thing I couldn't catch. 'Well' said the Brains after a while, 'what's your interest in the matter?' 'I was thinking you might be able to use another pair of hands.' Long silence. The Brains stood up. 'I've never seen you round the rattler before' he said. 'I'm new in town, like.' 'From where?' 'Hebden Bridge.' 'And where's that, when it's at home?' This was the Blocker speaking. 'Next door to Halifax,' I said. 'How did tha get bread there?' asked the Blocker. 'Had a go-on in a factory, like.' 'A factory making what?' asked the Brains. 'Screws' I said. I looked at the Brains: a foxy-looking sort: skimpy hair, sleepy eyes; a lot of eyelid visible at all times. Pickpocket… Well, it was a skill above the ordinary thief. 'I had a bit of a run-in with the charge hand… got stood down over it, so then I worked in the fields for a time… Over Bradford way. That was last back end – harvest time.' 'And when the harvest was in?' the Brains asked. 'Workhouse,' I said. 'It was a pretty soft doss.' 'Got a name?' said the Brains, with the creeping smile about his lips as before. 'Allan,' I said. 'Allan bloody what?' said the Blocker. 'Allan Appleby' I said. 'Bollocks' said the Blocker. I gave a glance down at the portmanteau, saying, 'I had this away earlier on.' I kicked the bag over towards the Brains, who stood up, plucked out one of the magazines, leaving a page dangling on which we both read the words 'British Locomotive Practice and Performance.' From over by the door, the Blocker said: 'What's this rubbish?'
'Railway Magazines,'
I said. 'Short of arse wipe are you?' he said, striding over, taking that particular number from the Brains and pitching it on to the fire, where it just lay in the smoke for a while. Presently, though, it began to burn, signifying as it did so the end of all my railway hopes for ever. I did not want to be in this smoke hole, I did not want to be in the Pantomime Police, and the anger came up in me all at once.
'You're a fucking rotter,' I said to the Blocker.
I heard the Brains say something surprised-sounding as the Blocker closed on me. His fist went back, and I fancy that I said out loud, 'Here we go, then', just before spinning back under the blow, feeling the bar floor come up towards me like something carried on a wave.
‹O›-- I put my finger towards my eye, and it touched my eye too early. Some things had happened. The fire was smoking even more strongly, and the place was becoming like a damned kipper house. I put my hands to my eyes again. Of course… the fake spectacles were not there. It was all up with my disguise. I was propped against the bar, and the Brains had swapped places with the Blocker.