Of course scotti. . He was taking out the pipe.
I mean just now, you know, it’s just now I need it.
He nodded and got the wallet out, passed me a single.
Great. Fine. I nodded, I’m just going.
He looked at me.
The wee shop in the village just, I’ll only be a minute. . I grabbed the T-shirt.
By the grassy verge beneath the veranda of the local general store with the morning sun on my shoulders, the tin lying open at one side and the cider bottle uncorked on the other, and the cows lowing in the adjacent meadow, and the smoke rolled and being lighted and sucking in that first drag, keeping the thrapple shut to trap it there; with no bout of coughing, not a solitary splutter, the slight zuzz in the head. Instead of exhaling in the ordinary way I widened my lips and opened the throat without blowing so that the smoke just drifted right out and back in through my nostrils. Dizziness now but the head was clear though the belly not so good, and a shudder, fine. Then the cider, like wine it tasted and not too pleasant, just exact, and ready now, the second drag.
Time had passed. The lorry. It came into view, chugging along, the farmer at the wheel. I gestured at him with the bottle and the smoke, but as a greeting only. He returned it cheerily. The French on the back, the women there. I waved. Bon, I shouted. Once it had passed from view I swallowed the remainder of the cider and got up to return the bottle. I walked back to the farm, the tea would soon be coming.
A wide runner
I was in London without much cash and having to doss in the porch of a garden shed; it lay behind the shrubbery section of a grass square which the locals referred to as a park. The man who maintained it was called Kennedy. When he found me asleep he didnt kick me out but wanted to know what was what, and he left some sacking for me that evening. Next morning he brought John along with him; inside the shed he brewed a pot of tea. It was good and hot, burned its way down — late autumn or early winter. He got me answering the same questions for John’s benefit; when I finished he looked to him. John shrugged, then muttered something about getting me a start portering if I wanted, interview that afternoon maybe. With a bit of luck I could even be starting the following morning.
Christ that’s great, I said.
If he cant do it then nobody can, chuckled Kennedy. He’s the blue-eyed boy in there!
John grimaced.
Yeh. Kennedy winked at me. Gets away with murder he do!
John shook his head, moments later he left.
At 8 a.m. next day I was kitted out with the uniform then being introduced to the rest of the squad in the porter’s lodge. The place was a kind of college and the duties I performed were straightforward. For the first few days John guided me round; we pushed barrows full of stationery and stuff though in his position — Head Porter — he wasnt supposed to leave the vicinity of the marble entrance hall. He also fixed me up with a sub from the Finance Office, one week’s lying time being obligatory. It was a surprise; I hadnt asked him to do it. That’s great, I said, I’ll buy you a pint when we finish.
He glanced at the clock in the lodge and shrugged, Just gone opening-time Jock, buy me it now if you like.
Kennedy was on a stool at the bar. I ordered pints for the three of us and he nudged me on the ribs. Yeh, didnt I tell you? blue-eyed boy he is!
Leave off, muttered John.
But Kennedy continued chuckling. You’ll be moving to a new abode then?
Aye, thanks — letting me use the shed and that.
He laughed. Us sassenachs arent all bad then eh!
Silly fucker, grunted John.
After work they showed me to a rooming house they reckoned might be suitable. The landlady was asking a month’s rent in advance but they had prepared me for it and eventually she did settle for the same sum spread over the following four weeks. It was an ideal place for the time being. The college was less than 10 minutes’ walk away. Round the corner lived Kennedy and his family while John rented a room further down the road, in a house managed by a middle aged Irish couple who tended to make a fuss of him — things like laundry and making a point of getting him in for Sunday dinner every week. They were a nice couple but John got slightly irritated by it. Yeh, he said, you’re into the position where you got to go; you’re letting them down if you dont.
It turned out his wife had been killed in an accident several years ago. I didnt discover the exact details but it seems to have been an uncommon kind, and made the newspapers of the day. One night he was drunk he told me he could never have married again, that she had been the greatest thing in his life. To some extent this would explain why people reacted to him as they did. And Kennedy was also right, John did get away with a lot.
Inside the college an ex-R.A.F. man had overall charge of the hourly-paid workers; he treated those under him as though they were servicing the plane he was to pilot, but he shied clear of John. Our dinner hours were staggered between 11.45 a.m. and 2.45 p.m. Unless totally skint John spent the entire three hours in the pub. If the ex-R.A.F. man needed to contact him he made a discreet call to the lodge and sent one of the older porters with the message. Not surprisingly a few people resented this special treatment; yet nothing was ever said directly to John. He was in his early sixties, as thin as a pole, his skin colouring a mixture of greys and yellows. He could be a bit brusque, short tempered, frequently ignoring people who were speaking to him. I got on fine with him. Once he realised my interest in horse racing wasnt confined to the winning and losing of money we got on even better. Money was probably the main reason why he affected people; John had won and done vast sums of the stuff; and while I was hearing many stories from him I was also hearing quite a few about him — and not always to his credit. A fair amount of respect was accorded him but often it would be tinged by that mixture of scorn and vague annoyance which non punters and small punters can display whenever the exploits of heavy gamblers are discussed. Kennedy was an example of this. Although he genuinely liked John, and enjoyed recounting tales of his past wins, he would finish with a wink and a snort. . Yeh Jock, then me and the Mrs had to feed him for the next bleeding month.
A couple of weeks into the job I was given additional duties in the college refectory. Being the last porter in I had no option in the matter, but it suited me anyway. In return for rinsing the pots and the pans I could eat as much free grub as I wanted. It meant I didnt have to worry about eating in the evening. Also I was escaping from the lodge. Portering can be an extremely boring job. Much of the time was spent in and around the lodge; when John was available it was fine but if not the only conversation to be had centred on job-gossip or last night’s television. It was the kind of job people either stuck for a month or remained until retiral; most of them had been there for years, and even the arrival of some nice looking female didnt particularly interest them. One of the morning duties involved the distribution of mail; this entailed journeying in and out of all the different offices. It seemed the kind of thing the porters would be working on a rota-system but they werent bothered at all; anybody who felt like it could do the rounds. It was good. The college employed a great many temporary staff from the office agencies and it became something to look forward to.
The woman in charge of the kitchen and refectory was another to make a fuss over John. She nagged him about eating. She wrapped left-over food in tinfoil and sent it to the lodge in time for the pub shutting. At this stage of the day John’s actions were erratic, absentminded; he would stick the packages in his uniform pocket and forget all about them. You could be sitting having a drink with him at 10 p.m. and out one would come, the tinfoil unwrapped and John continuing the conversation as he munched on a couple of rashers of bacon. One time in the lodge a porter went into silent hysterics at the window. The rest of us crept over to see what was what. Out in the marble entrance hall John with a piece of shepherd’s pie in one hand and a clutch of mashed potato in the other; a visiting dignitary was inquiring directions and John was gesticulating various routes between bites. Too much brown ale was the chief cause but added to that was his preoccupation with the afternoon’s racing results. John bet daily. And nightly where possible. He had a credit account with the bookie over the road. Either he used the phone in the lodge or sent me, if he couldnt be bothered walking across. I placed quite a few bets for him, but not too many on my own behalf. I wasnt very interested at the time — horse racing had come to a complete standstill. Not because of the weather, but some unknown virus had swept through stables up and down the country. In an effort to check it the authorities postponed racing indefinitely. John was betting on greyhounds, the virus being strictly equine.