“So!” he said to her, “You’ve decided to grow the moustache.”

Dalton didn’t whisper this. Ford, at the far end of the bar, heard him clearly. Dalton continued, “Not everyone can carry off a ’tash, but you’ve got the bones for it.”

Sheila, his audience, looked as anyone would expect: mortified. Ford had known her for a while and the slight suggestion of hair on her upper lip was her daily crucifixion.

“There isn’t an hour I don’t think about it,” she said. “If people aren’t staring, I think they’re being polite. If they are staring, well … you can work out how that feels.”

Ford didn’t know if he’d noticed in the beginning. The first time he met her she said, “So you’re thinking, ‘Who’s the hairy chick?’”

He wasn’t, was he? The shame-all was she had a pretty face. Not gorgeous or heart-pounding but in there. She’d been Dalton’s girlfriend for three years. Put him on the other side of six drinks and out came the moustache. The crunch was he was gorgeous according to every woman Ford had ever asked. He’d stopped asking. Dalton was of medium build with a pot belly. “A lotta good cash to round that out,” he said. His hair was in galloping recession and he had nail-you-to-the-wall eyes. The nose. Here lay the mystery. One of those snub noses that are appealing on tousle-haired kids. Cute, as the Americans say. On a grown man it should look ridiculous. Women loved it, back in the times when Ford had asked.

He’d been Ford’s friend for ten years. “For sins of a past life,” muttered Ford. Very heavy sins. Ford was currently a social worker. At thirty-six years of age he’d been in many occupations. Most of those he would no longer admit to. At one low point, an English language teacher. Worse, English as a foreign language and he certainly found it to be that. The final revenge of a lone Irishman on the English according to Dalton. Ford knew he was in deep trouble when he began to speak like students. “How you say”, he remembered with deep shame. Twelve years he’d been in London and social working for the previous two. Prior to that he’d been open to suggestions and still was.

On Clapham Common today a wino had waylaid him. Ford had seen him coming and began the discreet weaving. This usually put him beyond the wino by the vital beginning of the plea. He misjudged it or perhaps the wino weaved better. Face to face.

“Please, sur,” in that tone between servility and surliness.

“I’ve no change,” snapped Ford, hating himself.

“I’m not begging,” and this in a grievously offended voice.

The wino pushed a greeting card under his nose. It was a book token for almost fifteen pounds.

“Are you a reading man?” he asked.

“Bring it to the book shop for a refund,” said Ford.

“They’ll only give books,” he said. “You can’t drink bloody books.”

Ford certainly agreed with this. He gave the wino his loose change and fled. He hated that the winos were Irish, another point for the English to cave. How many years of English language teaching would cancel that?

He stopped at The Rose and Crown. The barmaid was blowsy and many sheets to the wind. He got a large gin and her full lit smile. He should have had what she was having. Pity enwrapped him. As an antidote he played “Run Around Sue” in his head – he’d found it on a juke box in Camden Town a few weeks back. A punk rocker glared and immediately after selected “The Men Behind the Wire.” In passing Ford he hissed, “Get real, granddad.” True to tell, Ford’s hair was thinning rapidly. How did you fatten hair? Now he kept his music internal and his hair on despair. A man nearing seventy sat carefully down near Ford. He had a full rich head of hair. Fat in fact, seethed Ford. The man peered intently at a five pound note which he ironed flat, then caressed and even smelled it. A sigh then.

“Excuse me, son?” he asked.

Ford moved nearer and the old man held up the fiver.

“It’s not a ten, is it?”

“No – no, it’s a five.”

“Ar – agh.”

Ford felt like a murderer. Should he have lied? And then what? All horrible complications would surely follow. Pity leaked further. Ford rose for a refill.

“Can I get you a drink,” he offered.

“Ger off, I’m too old for pooftahs,” he roared.

Ford went straight out the door and came here. Just in time to hear Dalton’s statement and end a pitied day.

At work Ford had begun in a wild flush of enthusiasm. Full of fellowship and ideals, he reckoned on putting the “h” back in “humanity” in London’s South East. Above his desk he hung Balzac’s “Nothing prepares you for the heartless cruelty of people.” A young black seeing it had asked, “The man from Brixton?”

His first client was a young Scottish girl, Angela, whose boyfriend beat her regularly.

“He’s a good ’un though,” she said. “He works and he doesn’t drink.”

“Rare qualities indeed,” said Ford, “he just works on you.”

Early in February she had appeared with both eyes blackened. Ford had suggested very strategic things to her. As she left she smiled at Ford as if he understood nothing and said, “He does it to show his love.”

“Let me know what he does for Valentine’s Day”, Ford said.

He had initially believed the tone he needed for social work was a light ironical one. This he adopted till a West Indian punched him in the mouth roaring, “Don’t get ironical with me sahib.”

On first arriving in London, Ford had made the big mistake of handling fruit at a vegetable stall. The owner came screaming and spitting bile and aggravation.

“Never handle the fruit.”

Since then Ford had seen countless other fruit vendors achieve instant psychosis as some hapless foreigner touched their product.

He felt there should be a large billboard on the White Cliffs of Dover proclaiming “Don’t touch their fruit.”

Ford was big on control. Uneasiness gripped him when any area of his life slithered away. Yet he frequently drank heavily, thus forfeiting any personal direction. A lot of things got away from him then. Control definitely headed the pack. As the other faculties blurred, it leaped to win the stampede. Riddle him that.

Movies were his passion. Like Joseph Stalin, he had a penchant for the old American gangster stories. When men were men, and women were glad of it. He’d been to see Ordinary People and Judd Hirsch as the psychiatrist says, “I’m not big on control.” This soured that for Ford. He even read Judith Guest’s novel to see if that line was there. Oh sweet control! At such times Vikki spoke in his head. Ford once said “I love her because she loves me.” Not the worst reason, he thought as he’d thought so many times before. Without bitterness, and sometimes even without regret, he didn’t love anyone now. Not that heart-stopping, dizzying obsession that quakes your whole world. You didn’t know whether to sing or puke. Once – oh yes. But a long time ago. “It wouldn’t come again,” he said aloud. Moreover, he didn’t believe he had anymore what it took to rise to such heights. Such a level of one-dimensional obsession.

Ford didn’t figure it required youth as much as energy, and he was all out of energy. “God help us,” he added. This was an Irish benediction or condemnation, depending on your circumstances. Emotionally, Ford’s words were woesome and he sometimes realized it. Vikki would say “Sweetheart, if you’d listen to Leonard Cohen sing ‘Dance Me To the End of Love’ you’d be grand.” Maybe a lot of things, but he didn’t feel then or now that grand was one of them. Grand really applied to hotels or weather. He didn’t think you’d go far on grand emotions, not in South East London anyway.

On his fourth pint after work that Friday, Ford began to loosen up. Social work, jeez it was anything but social. His director, named Neville Whitlow, said a thousand times daily, “We can only try, children.” A pompous ass. Ford found him pretty trying. Children! For beggars sake! That a grown man would address his staff as that. Ford seethed anew.

Neville was from Suffolk and this explained a lot. “There were two types of Neville down there,” said Dalton on one of his rare visits. The Neville who stays put and the one who leaves. To be exactly identical in London. The director made the mistake of attempting to talk sensibly to Dalton.

“Are you a social worker, perchance, a socialite, mate?”

“Do you mean socialist?”

“Watch my lips, mate: now real S-L-O-W – socialite.”

That was that.

To calm himself, Ford dismissed all thoughts of work.

He liked to muse on great book titles. A few were outstanding. By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. Sure you’d have to grab that. He’d yet to meet a woman who didn’t love that title. In fact he’d yet to meet a woman. My Brilliant Career. Another cracker. Was she kidding, you thought. Irony. Right! Lay that ole irony down with a trowel and book awards yet mentioned. For his own book he’d title In Santorini I Greek Mis-spelt Your Name. Get the yuppies and the sour-ass romantics. The greek-o-philes would nod knowingly and shell out. Powerhouse Sex. In truth to tell, he’d sell it thus. Big red letters on a black jacket. Nowt else. Full of plunging and ravaging with buttocks heaving and bosoms hopping. Big buckets of sweat and grunting. ‘She felt his manhood throb’ type passages. Ford’s own favorite was “love weapon” pronounced with a slight slur. “She unsheathed his love weapon.” Not the easiest line to mutter with a straight face. Let’s get down to fierce basics, thought Ford. The hero would be named Ramrod. Then Ford’s mood darkened as the jukebox played Willie Nelson’s “Loving Her Was Easier”. Next would come ole Waylon Jennings. Ah, stab my unprotected heart. Tis a while since he’d felt anything throbbing at all.

Heading for the subway at The Elephant and Castle, he had that fragile feeling where you walk very, very carefully. Like a drunk, in fact. “Who, me?” Never, Neville! “When you’re tired of London, you’re tired of life.” Whoever wrote that, had never traveled on the Northern line. The elevator was out of order. Well knackered from the stairs, Ford leaned on the platform pillar. Two skinheads were rough-housing. As the train approached Ford whispered, “Play well children,” and hiccuped merrily. The skinheads suddenly raced towards him, and one shot him a kick in the groin.

“Score one for Milwall,” he roared.

The Doc Marten had a steel toe, and Ford dropped like a felled tree. The train pulled off as Ford lay whimpering.

“I throb,” he thought. His love weapon crushed.

Then there was what Ford termed Dalton’s political conversation. Dalton claimed to have met an ex-Prime Minister on a train. If bodyguards were present, they had achieved an invisible profile. Dalton approached the man and he was receptive, even friendly. Perhaps he feared public indifference more than political danger. He spoke at length and Dalton managed an almost fine pretence of interest. Eventually, Dalton proposed a drink and borrowed a twenty from the man.

“Bit short on the readies, wife in the hospital, etc.”

“So,” asked Ford, “did you buy him the drink?”

“Of course. A ginger ale, mind. He had an image to portray. I didn’t rejoin him. Lord no, but I said I’d get the money to him when the country got back on its feet. I left him to his ginger ale alone as I reckoned he’d a future behind him and might welcome some introspection if not downright reflection.”

This way as unlikely a yarn as Ford had ever heard, even from the likes of Dalton. Dalton’s credo was simple, based loosely on Henry Thoreau’s: “Beware of any enterprise that requires new clothes.”

“Look,” he said to Ford, “everything is about dealing. God doesn’t give you any class. OK, then maybe deal with the devil for a bit of style.”

He pronounced devil as divil and not always intentionally.

“Is this a true story?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, there are some flaws in there.”

“What, what friggin flaws? You don’t believe I subbed the money?”

“Oh not, that’s all too believable. It’s the ex-Prime Minister on a train bit.” Ford paused, considered, then risked, “Had a season ticket, did he?”

Dalton was livid. “You scummy bastard! He’s a man of the people, why wouldn’t he take trains? Anyroad, what do you care if it’s true, you enjoyed the story or what?”

“Yes.”

“So, where’s the problem? Picking up some integrity in the social work field, are we? Time was, Ford, you’d just enjoy a story. Now you need references. Jeez man, why do you care? Leave the caring to the Nevilles.”

“Listen, Dalton, I love the story but I do care.”

“It’s that I kind of need it to be true.”

“Ah, for crying out loud! You ludrimawn, you’re W-E-I-R-D. Gottit? You remind me of that biblical fellah – what’s his name? Jot?”

“Job.”

“Yea, that’s the guy. Always whinin’ to heaven, ‘Oh oh oh, why me, Lord?’” The Lord looked down and said, “Cos you really piss me off.”

Ford laughed loudly, but Dalton wasn’t placated.

“You keep laughing, son, it’s what you do best. The end is nigh, and nigher than you think.”

Dalton gulped down the dregs of his whiskey. Standing up, he looked Ford full in the face and said, “How yah fixed for a tenner?”

The briefest conversation.

Ford boarded the No. 12 at Notting Hill Gate. Not a riot in sight. The upper deck was packed but he managed to squeeze a space in front of two very well dressed women. In their fifties, he noted without interest. As the bus turned at Marble Arch he gradually filtered their conversation. He tried these days to shut out others’ talk. Vikki had once accused him of being but an eavesdropper on life. “Fit that into a C.V.,” he’d replied.

One woman said, “Well, I said to him, ‘Trevor, you may certainly suit yourself, but I’m not wearing a bra.’”

“Gosh, I’ll bet that set the cat among the old pigeons. What!” I’d have told him I hadn’t worn an knickers there either, Ford thought. Louis MacNeice was among Ford’s favorite poets. Not least because he loved trains. Ford could sit and read Autumn Journal and know a measure of peace. He’d like to carve in granite MacNeice’s description of the Irish:

“They stagger round the world with a stammer

and a brogue and a faggot of useless memories”

Paul Theroux too, those magical travel books, he was brilliantly crabby. You’d like to sit down with the guy and discuss serious irritation. His novel, My Secret Life, appeared to Ford to have been gouged from his very soul.

Ford liked the English, often despite themselves. That low key approach was mighty appealing. At their best they looked like they’d settle for a good thick rope. Absolute delight was expressed as super. “How was it for you, dear?” “Super.”

The old stiff upper dick was Dalton’s analysis. Thus we come to Bill. He didn’t fit the stereotype. A cockney, he’d been referred to a social worker through the courts. Bill liked to drink. A lot. “Clients,” Neville called them. Bill and Ford became friends. Last Christmas, Ford had given him Paul Theroux’s impressions of the English, The Kingdom By the Sea.

“So, Bill, how did you like the book?”

“Wanker!”

As to whether this meant Ford of Theroux wasn’t clear. They drank together, and recently Ford had fallen down a lot. Some insane part of him hoped Bill hadn’t noticed. That lying prone was, perhaps, an odd way to behave in pubs, but not anything serious. So you had a few, and fell over, big deal. If Bill fell over a lot, would he mind?

As a social worker, he might inject a cautionary word. Very cautionary. Bill was six feet three and tipping two hundred pounds. No, nothing heavy or, God forbid, even mildly castigating.

Bill had asked Ford to meet him in Camden Town, an Irish suburb. They settled in the snug, and went to work on some Guinness. Ford got the next shout and, apparently as an afterthought, ordered a couple of scotches. Bill frowned.

“The Guinness tastes a bit sour?” asked Ford.

“Not the Guinness.”

In such a situation you either shut up or asked, “Not me, I hope.” The latter never paid dividends.

“Not me, I hope.”

“You got that right, son.”

Whoops! This was heading for the toilet.

“What, what’s the matter?”

“Do you worry about your drinking?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should.”

How big was big, so … OK, Bill was huge and so was his mouth.

“Bill, would you like to get right to it? This is like forty questions and I hate all the answers.”

“Ford, I like you. You’re weird for an Irishman, you’re quiet and funny but I worry for you. Take me, I’m a big drinker. I drink and I do other things. Now, you. You drink and you drink and you fall over every time I see you.”

Ford was raging. A deep surge of bile threatened to blast upwards.

“Well, Bill, where I grew up you suspected people who didn’t drink. Some of the old Hollywood actresses said, ‘Never trust a man who doesn’t drink.’ They could trust me. I kept hearing about role reversal on TV. Is that what we’ve got here? You’re the social worker and I’m the big guy with the market stall, oh yea, and a drink problem, right?”

Bill tried to interrupt. He’d never heard Ford say so much. Neither had Ford. The look on Ford’s face was chilling.

“Shut-up! You want honesty, then shut the hell up.”

“I have a drink problem, it’s my problem. You have a problem with that, it’s your bloody problem. But, see, already your talk has helped. See these drinks – see! Who the hell needs them!

He was far too Irish to sweep them to the floor. He stood and swept out.

Ford liked to read about Paris in the Thirties, all the heavy-weights floating around dripping literature. The lost generation, how unutterably romantic. It tickled him to think that in fact a garage mechanic had coined the phrase. Gertrude Stein claimed it like the slick old bat she was. Personally, Ford felt he belonged to “the faded generation.” “Wow, how did you get those dreams so faded?” “Stone wash … then hung them out to dry.”

He read about Paris now to block out the scene in Camden Town. It didn’t work. Whether Hemingway wrote one true sentence or Alice B. Tok told the truth in her woeful biography, who cared?

Crossing to his one cupboard, he rummaged there. Out came a bottle of Pernod, unopened, the seal intact. A present from Vikki after one of her Parisian jaunts. “Open that on a special occasion,” she said. Her eyes had been as soft then as if the whole world had benefited from a belt or two of Pernod. He put Waylon Jennings on the turntable. The bottle he placed on the table before him. Hands clasped, as if in prayer, he sat watching it. Waylon sang.

Hemingway said in A Moveable Feast that at his happiest time with Hedley, they’d been in an oak cabin surrounded by wood. They hadn’t touched or knocked on it, and how Hemingway rued that omission! Ford was damned if he’d touch wood either. The question was straightforward: “Was this, or was it not, the special occasion?”

Come Thursday night, Ford replayed his scene with a client at work. A middle aged travel agent was developing a taste for drink. Pressure from his wife led him to seek help or, as she said, “She’d travel.” The initial interview had gone like this. Tom, the travel agent, was extremely nervy.

“Do you worry about your drinking?” Ford asked.

“No!”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“Maybe you should,” said Ford with the air of solemn experience.

He fixed Camden Town squarely in his sights, then continued.

“Tom – May I call you Tom? OK, Tommy. I like you, you’re offbeat for a travel agent. You’re quiet and, probably, funny. I worry for you, Lots of people drink, am I right, Tommy? Just nod your head. They drink and do other things. But you Tommy, you drink and you drink, and you fall down.”

“I beg your pardon? I never fell down in my life,” Tommy blubbered. “Never!”

“Ah Tommy, you look like a faller to me. No, no, no, Tommy, just nod. It’s best at the beginning if you don’t interrupt.”

To Ford’s amazement, Tommy took all of this for the mandatory two hours. Ford would have walloped the living daylights out of himself. Especially the “Tommy” touch. Phew! Perhaps travel agents were immune to abuse. Afterwards, in Neville’s office he’d been introduced to Tom’s wife. A harridan, as the dramatists said.

“Thomas has gone outside to the motor,” she said, eyeballing Ford.

“That’s nice,” said Ford. He was damned if he’d say on word about the interview. He stared right back and thought, “Yea, motormouth!” After she’d left, Neville went into a long spiel about apples in the bud and other timely metaphors, down home Suffolk wisdom by the kilo. “Any impressions to share, old chap?”

“Yea, don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s no wonder he drinks.”

All of this would fill Neville’s report. Ford didn’t really see a huge future for himself in this field. Whoops! Depression’s knocking on wood.

Ford scanned the evening paper. One eye on the bar. An American student was browbeating the bartender.

“Lemme tell yah, buddy, the English don’t know shit for sports.”

Ford didn’t think the bartender was likely to be his friend. The American had a sweatshirt proclaiming “Cleveland 11.” Ford hadn’t really heard a whole lot about the first. He loved to hear them mangle and do absolute gymnastics with English. They had some choice expressions, apart from Muttah, which they prefixed to every conceivable kind of sexual activity and then flung the lot at you. He never ceased to wonder at “shit for brains”. What construction, and this was an insult! Their predilection for the mammary gland was truly breathtaking. Ford smiled at his own pun. See, it’s contagious, he thought.

“This country sucks,” said Cleveland.

The barman was now most definitely not his buddy. Of all the names for newspapers, Ford liked this best, The Cleveland Plain Dealer. A man’s paper, you felt. No floss, just the news, nothing fake or fancy. Calls ’em as we get ’em. Jack Webb would have bought it in his Dragnet fashion. He returned to his own paper. The Dow Jones index was down again. Ford knew two things about it. It went up. It went down. Pure simplicity!

Yet, you said in a reasonably crestfallen tone to somebody, “The Dow is down!”

Bingo, next time around, they were asking for financial advice. Worse, you were tempted to give it. He looked at the TV. Oh, gloried-be, The Rockford Files. Better than The Sweeney repeats. Forget the drink. Run for home, re-heat the chili and relish. Bliss indeed! What mortal could ask for more (maybe Barney Miller). His cup runneth over. As he prepared to depart, he heard what sounded like a very vindictive rain out there. The lash-you-into-the-face type. The notion arose: was he over emphasising the joy of the evening ahead … just a tad overstating.

The barman roared. “All right you, I’ve had it, time to sling your ’ook.” He leaped the bar and showed Cleveland to the door. Plain enough! Sling your hook. The English had a few beauts of their own.

Phew, Ford was sure glad it was Saturday. No putting the world to social rights today. He uttered a silent prayer that Tom the travel agent wasn’t like death warmed over. With that wife, he speculated on how it could be otherwise. The phone shrieked putting the heart cross-ways in him. It had that shrill insistent yak which went “answer me and answer me fast.” Implicit in that was the sly promise “but you’ll be sorry.” Most times Ford answered the phone, he regretted it. “Here goes,” and reflexively his fingers crossed.

“Yea.”

“Ford?” Dalton roared. He had the Irish habit of bellowing at phones. Loudness abetted comprehension.

“And good morning to you.”

“Ford, have you been drinking already? Or is there a woman there? Hey, put a knot in it.”

“More of it,” said Ford.

“Listen, you know what a dip is, do you?”

“Anything to do with the Dow Jones?”

“What? Dow who … are you pissed?”

“No … And no, I dunno what a dip is, should I?”

“It’s what the English call a pickpocket, you know, a Jimmy light-fingers.”

“O.K.”

“Well Ford, I got dipped … over sixty notes. What do you think of that?”

Ford didn’t think much of it one way or the other. All he knew was, it would cost him. In fact he felt he was about to experience exactly what it was to be dipped by phone. Right now he wasn’t in to the mood for Dalton.

“So, Ford … Ford, are you there? Hello?”

“Yea.”

“I wonder if maybe you could let me have seventy-five?”

“Seventy-five!”

“Just kidding. Lighten up Ford. Seventy will do grand.”

“I’ll be in The Kings Arms around eight. O.K.?”

“What am I supposed to do till then?”

“You’re always telling me you’d have been a gifted actor, that you missed your vocation.”

“Jeez, so what?”

“So, act outraged,” and Ford put down the phone.

Then there was Grace. A lovely name for a woman, and a lovely lady she was. You could put music to this. Ford wished he had. On one bright and shiny day he won on the horses. He’d noticed a horse called “Vikki’s Way” was entered at Redcar. On a whim and a prayer, he put a tenner to win … and it did. He’d gone into Ladbrokes in Piccadilly Circus. The horse paid nine-to-one, minus tax. Ford was stunned. He had a fist of tenners. Something special to remember. He did a wee jig on the street.

Fortnum and Mason caught his eye. Why the hell not? A high English tea … cream buns and crumpet … ah! He really wanted a drink but he could do that later and seriously. In he went. The staff intimidated him, and it was crowded. On the verge of fleeing, he spied a table with one person. “Go on, it’s a day for gambling,” he urged. This was a fine looking woman here. Too late to gallop.

“Excuse me. Er – might I sit … Is the table free?”

She looked up. Blue, blue eyes and my, oh my, a face close to beauty. Around thirty. In there!

“Is it free? Now, mm … There is a vacant place, but I’d hazard a guess and say it’s far from free. Not here!”

Wouldn’t you know it? A comedian. What a wit! He sat anyway. Ford was very uncomfortable. So much that he ordered coffee and felt a distinct freeze. From nowhere a devil-may-care mood took hold, laced lightly with rage. A caff, that’s all. For all the snotty trappings, it was just a caff. But the treatment wasn’t quite over.

“And how would sir wish his coffee?”

You could cut glass with the smirk. Ford looked up. God! He’d be brawling in a minute. The woman sat and watched Ford. Enough already!

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you bring it in a cup, then if I feel maybe I’d like a bucket later, I’ll get back to you. The coffee came quietly. Ford didn’t think the attitude improved a whole lot but he sure felt better. Way, way better.

“You’re losing your hair,” she said.

Follow that! Ford couldn’t. For starters it was true. Boy was it true? Every morning the mirror taunted, “Hey, you got so bald, where did all your hair go?” He had sandy, loose hair. A whole lot looser these days. Gloried be, some mornings there seemed to be more hair on the brush than on his head. A wig would never be a solution. His mother said a thousand times, “See a man with a wig, you see an ejit.”

Pithy but effective. You hoped for a high forehead and the kindness of strangers. Not today. Was she all in it, he wondered. I mean, would you say to a person, “Hi, how come you’re so bald?” or “I see you’re missing a few teeth there, missus.” Come on!

She had a hoity-toity voice with an underlay of America.

Ferocious combination. Ford looked at his coffee: could they find smaller cups?

“Don’t sulk, you’ve a strong face,” she said.

There isn’t a man in the world who wouldn’t swap a strong face for a head of hair. Ford ran a series of snappy rejoinders all of which sounded flat. Oh tonight, he’d have a veritable trove of crisp replies. He said, “You’re all in it, are yah? Firing on all cylinders I mean?”

She looked startled, then smiled.

“You’re Irish?”

Following this lady’s thought process was very unnerving. She continued, “I couldn’t understand a person coming here … for coffee.”

“Well, I didn’t think they’d give me Guinness.”

“I don’t think they’re fond of me as it is.” She laughed again. “I’m Grace,” she said.

Ford considered, then went for the brogue.

“And tis graced I am myself to meet thee.” Not bad. Not great, but he was new to this.

“Are you American?” he asked.

“Hey, very sharp. I though my Fortnum and Mason accent was foolproof. I’m from Wisconsin, and for a while there I had a limey husband.”

“Lousy?”

“Yeah, that too. No, Limey. Like English. Cecil. Cecil’s my husband,” she smiled deeply here. “Hey, I like saying that. Back home, you call a guy Cecil, you better reach for a weapon … and be carrying something a little more lethal than an attitude. But he’s a story that needs at least three bourbons for lubrication.” Ford considered. How dangerous could someone called Cecil be? Realistically, how much?

“What’s your name?” she asked. “I mean, if you’re buying me a drink, it helps. I’m not saying it’s essential, but I’m curious.”

“Ford.”

“That’s it, Ford? Blunt and macho. Well, no shit. Don’t fool with this dude. Ever read Ford Madox Ford?”

“The Good Soldier?”

“Way to go, course you Irish have some sort of lock on writers, am I right?”

Did this require an answer? Ford didn’t think so.

“Let me pay for this,” Ford suggested, and she agreed. After he paid he stood with a vague smile, looking at the bill.

“Something wrong, Ford?”

“No.” He was thinking this place has brought the “dip” to a professional level. They walked up Charing Cross Road past 84, and Grace said she’d sure like to have met Helen Hanff. Grace knew a small pub off New Oxford Street and they went there.

The barman said, “Hi, Grace,” and Ford thought, “Oh yea?”

“How do you feel about sour mash?” she asked.

“Is that like sour grapes, or bitter spuds?”

“Droll, Ford. Let’s drink Stateside liquor. They got ’em all here.”

“Hey, Tommy, you want to bring us some sour mash and make them big suckers. On the rocks.”

Tommy wanted to, and did. He was in his fifties with a lopsided leer. He showed his teeth a lot, which was a mystery. The teeth were not so much stained by tobacco as blitzed. Lashings of Old Spice didn’t disguise the fact that Tommy had sampled some sour mash himself, and not long ago. Judging by his smile, maybe he’d drank the Old Spice.

“You’re a doll,” Grace said.

The barman didn’t strike Ford as such unless The Brothers Grimm had designed some.

“You know why I like this place, Ford?”

“The ambience?”

“Good word, been reading Improve Your Word Power, in the Reader’s Digest, I’d say.”

She walloped back the drink so Ford did the same and nearly went through the wall.

“Arr … gh!” he cried.

“Old Kentucky Mule Kick,” she said. “Tommy, get your ass in gear. I like this place ’cos they got a juke box. Wanna play?”

“Any Waylon Jennings?” he asked, still dazed by from the bitterness of the sour mash. Sour, it was the pure bitterness of Lucifer.

She looked at Ford as more mule-kickers arrived. She said, “Lemme guess, it’s the wailing you like?”

“Well, Grace, I like the melancholy. Us Irish are happiest with a full blast of sadness. Music to hang yourself by basically.”

“You and Sylvia Plath, both, be my guest.”

Later, the bar began to fill, and Ford would have said something but his tongue felt shredded. The mule had indeed kicked. Grace began to stand up. Ford couldn’t bear the thought of her departure. She moved her face right next to his. “Here we go,” he thought, “the old peck on the cheek and sayonara.” His heart was broken.

“So, Ford,” she said, “you wanna get laid or what?”

“How was it for you,” Ford asked. He blew a nigh perfect smoke ring rising to the gods. If he felt any better they might have to certify him.

“Well … You’re a cryer, I’ll give you that.”

Ford felt gut kicked. Who needed sour mash? She added, “I liked it, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t special. You wouldn’t want me to lie … You’re not that kind of guy.”

I am, he roared silently, I am. Jeez! Lie to me and lie big. Who wanted honesty? He wanted to be a stud. Ford always felt that when someone said “I respect your honesty,” you should check the silverware. He could see his epitaph:

“A man of integrity but a lousy lay.”

Oh my God!

Grace turned to him and said, “So, you want to try again?” He did.

Ford knew the difference between a gift and mere talent. He had a talent for drawing. His sketches won him prizes at school. But gifted, no. You could develop a talent but you couldn’t work towards a gift. You were or you weren’t and he wasn’t. Vikki had given him a lavish copy of Beardsley’s work and he almost never looked at it. “Look and weep,” he knew. Somerset Maugham had said, “The greatest curse must be to have the compulsion to write, and no talent.” Ford shuddered on reading that. Substitute “sketch” for “write.”

Feeling a time of inspiration around them, Ford had a mental picture of Addie Bundren on the back of a wagon. He could see the red clay of the Mississippi … and sketched it … over and over till he felt he caught Faulkner’s vision … and obsession. It hung in his living room. With visitors to his flat, Ford appreciated the difference fully twixt talent and the jackpot. They’d say, “Nice sketch. Hey, I love your sofa, where’d you get it?” If he were gifted, they’d say, “Wow, what a sketch!” No mention of the bloody sofa.

Grace had looked at the sketch for what seemed like a long time. Ford, in anticipation actually fell on the sofa.

Finally she said, “Read any Faulkner?”

He loved her then. It was the best moment of all that they’d had. Ford was blessed just then because he knew the moment for what it was. Knew and understood and was grateful near to weeping.

Grace was in his life for three months. They drank sour mash, wailed with Waylon and made love a lot. Ford was never sure if he became a better lover. Certainly he became a more frequent one. Grace hadn’t told him the deal on her husband. She wasn’t a lady to urge “Tell me now.”

Grace wouldn’t live with him. That was O.K., he felt almost good enough to sketch again. Then that Friday she arranged to meet him at Finches on the Fulham Road. She arrived late and, uncharacteristically, bothered.

“Let’s drink gin,” she said.

Ford had already started on scotch, but hell, he was flexible.

She looked pale but it made her look lovelier to Ford.

“I hate this pub,” she said, “almost as much as I hate gin.”

“You aren’t pregnant … or anything,” Ford ventured. As to whether he disguised the hope in his voice, he’d never know for sure.

“No such bloody luck,” she said. “Cecil has returned to London. He’s been Stateside these past months … or do you think I invited him?”

“I dunno, Grace.”

“Judas Priest! That’s from Hill Street Blues … You couldn’t invent Cecil. He’s moving permanently to New York and … I’m the wife, so …”

“You’re going to New York”

“Bingo! God, this gin is awful.”

“Have something else.”

“What! And feel better? I wanna get drunk, not happy.”

“It’s over between us then,” said Ford. Stating the obvious was all he could muster.

“Tell you the truth Ford, I don’t think we can bring you.”

He could have smiled. I mean, a bit of levity was fairly vital here. But he didn’t and it wasn’t something he felt he’d regret.

“Say something Ford, any god-damn thing.”

“Good-bye?”

“Ford, I like you a whole lot, for reasons you’d never even realize. But … Bottom line time: Cecil is rich and I like being rich. I like it a lot! Your mentor, Scott Fitz, ‘The rich are different from you and me.’ Well, babe, I’m with them. I like the difference.”

“Daisy had the sound of money in her voice,” Ford muttered. The gin was making him sick. Worse, maudlin.

“That kind of stuff Ford. You won ninety pounds on a horse and thought you were loaded. I’m talking gold credit cards and Gucci toothbrushes.”

“Toothbrushes!” thought Ford. “She’s hoppin’ on my heart and talking toothbrushes!” He said, “I was rich that day I met you.”

“Jeez, don’t get poetic on me Ford. Not when I’m swiggin’ gin. We had a good time, kiddo. Hell, a great time, but, I mean, was it love?”

She paused, then said, “I always wanted to ask you something …”

“Better ask now while I’m in such a carefree phase,” he said.

“Vikki – did you love her?”

Ford walloped a measure of gin and wondered if the truth mattered. He’d once heard Sean Connery say on TV, “Tell the truth and then it’s their problem.” Worth a shot.

“I loved her because she loved me.”

Grace was silent. She didn’t order any more to drink and Ford didn’t think he’d ever order another gin. He said, to break the silence, “Did I ever tell you that the very meaning of the word ‘Grace’ is ’a free gift’?”

She liked that. He didn’t even have to look at her to know how pleased she was. She prepared to leave and handed him a bag with Tower Records splurged on it. A record, per chance?

“It’s Waylon,” she said.

“Who else?”

“You keep sketching, Ford, O.K.?” She turned to go.

“Grace.”

“Yes?”

“You be careful out there … And that’s from Hill Street Blues.”

He thought, “God mind you well” as she walked out. Not that he would have said that. But oh, how he meant it. She won’t look back, he bet, and this at least Ford got right.

The barman said, “You all right?”

“Yea … Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Got any sour mash?”

Ford felt he should stay a bit after her departure. Like about a week. In the while, the pain subsided and he knew he had some decisions to reach. He decided to start smoking again and what else? Right. Buy Marlboro. Pity he hadn’t a zippo.

It was time to leave when he asked a guy where the best place to buy hand-tooled cowboy boots was. He frequently considered sketching what it was he’d left behind there. Close his eyes and he could see it. The bar counter, a mess of glasses and the Tower Records bag. What eased the vision was the half empty box of Marlboro standing upright. Red, white and vivid against the gaudy yellow. As yet he hadn’t bought a zippo. The cowboy boots he put down to a passing whim. No more than that. Nothing but a passing fancy.

The very next day Ford caught a snatch of conversation he was to rate among his absolute favourites. This would top his collection. Hungover! He was knocking on heaven’s door. The phantom orchestras were full tilt boogie in his head. A cure … He’d have to have something before he appeared at work. Purely medicinal. The early morning houses at Smithfield. Have to be.

The pub was jammed with market traders. Maybe he’d turn his life completely round and party in the mornings. These people looked robust and … Good-lord! Alive! Back home, early pubs had the silence and sanctity of church, till later when the cures kicked home.

A large vodka with tonic. Oh God, was he seriously going to drink this? Weren’t there people in the greater London area who leaped to the day and said, “I’m going to have a fry-up for breakfast. Runny eggs, fat sausages …” A jolt of nausea straightened him. O.K., here goes. With both hands trembling he got the glass to his mouth. Tilt the head preferably and slide the sucker down. He did and it did. A-a-rg … God on a bicycle! Ah, it’s down … No, here it’s back … No, oh please. And miraculously it settled. He saw lights and heard tongues. Buckets of sweat blinded him and ran down his arms. This was fun? He hadn’t had such pleasure since those root canal sessions. The world changed, the Promised Land arrived. His heart ceased its mad fandango, the sweat evaporated and, was it possible, he felt pretty good. Might even have him another one of them vodkas, skip the tonic, bit gassy for his palate.

Thus a merry Ford heard a woman say to some guy – they were sitting to his left and he daren’t risk a sudden turn. This new found health was too precious to squander on curiosity. She was saying, “Oh yea, I know all about you little guys. Come for just a little drink. Then, honestly, just a little sex,” she paused and Ford could hear the sheer exasperation.

“Then there’s a little baby and guess what? You’re a little hard to find.”

Ford wanted to howl. Howling was not a good idea despite the vodka whispering, “No, no, go on. It’s O.K. Howling’s good. Go on, howl a bit.” He knew what happened to guys who howled in pubs. Next stop, the House of Confusion and white T-shirts … with straps. Wasn’t he a social worker! God, work! To quote Grace, he better haul ass. See, see how mellow he was, he could think, “Grace”. O.K. Odd, though, he didn’t much want to howl now. He in fact hauled ass, albeit carefully.

Before quitting time at work, Neville said, “A word before you depart.”

“Whoops,” thought Ford, “on your bike time.”

His final client of the day was a young, black girl. Ford found himself staring for just that too long moment.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No … No, well, you’ve a gorgeous face.”

She looked startled, then nearly pleased and settled on sad.

A diagnosis had found her to be an H.I.V. carrier. Unaffected herself, she carried the killer now. Ford was completely lost. He gave her the name of an Aids counsellor and some meaningless patter.

“Can I come to see you too?” she asked.

“Why,” he thought, and said, “of course.”

She was called Isobel and, this being South East London, she was know as Belle. Ford knew for whom the bell was tolling and hated himself for the flippancy. He didn’t know what else to think. He said, “I’ll see you soon.” Ah, the wisdom of the ages.

Neville put a folder aside and said, “I need your help and – er – guidance.”

“Sure,” said a stunned Ford.

“The local authority insist we recruit a field worker, someone with street credibility.”

“In other words, they don’t need academic qualifications.”

“Exactly. You’ve delved to the core of the situation. Social work has a very poor public image just now, so we need to get to the people.”

“Before the people get to us,” Ford mused.

“Any ideas?”

Ford hadn’t. “I haven’t,” he said.

“Well, okey-dokey, let me put this scenario before you. How about your chum Mr. Dalton?”

Ford nearly fell off the chair. Chum!

“Dalton?” he croaked.

“I feel he may perhaps be that rough diamond we need.”

“Well,” said Ford, “they don’t come much rougher.”

“Excellent. Might I prevail upon you to broach the subject with him and for him to drop in for an informal chat?”

“Watch your wallet,” thought Ford.

After he left Neville, he felt again as if he’d just been immersed in The Guardian. He didn’t think he’d file these conversations amongst the gems, rough diamonds notwithstanding.

The “interview” took place in a congenial setting. The pub. Dalton was on a roll. He’d won on the horses and had a lady lined up for later.

“A goer,” he said.

“Do I know her?”

“Not in the biblical sense, I hope.”

“Where’s Sheila these days?”

“Ah, that wan. She’s gone into herself. I think she’s gone vegetarian and is growing things, like a beard.”

What could you possibly say to that? Defend her and Dalton would be on you like a rate.

Ford had already paid for two rounds and looked like he’d be going for a third. He said, “I thought you were flush. Where’s the winnings?”

“I don’t collect till tomorrow, but I’m glad you mentioned money. Could you slip me a fast fifteen?”

“Dalton, have you any notion of all you owe me?”

“Oh, I do indeed. A tally is being kept. The book has you noted.”

“Mentioned in dispatches, am I”

“I tell you, Ford, you’ve changed and not for the better. You’re always worrying about little things. Since Vikki ran off on yah, you’ve become a slight pain in the ass.”

You had to hand it to Dalton, he didn’t come “cap in hand,” First he asked you for the cash, then he called you an asshole. Not your average people pleaser. In fact, something of a rough diamond. Ford thought he better get to it.

“How do you feel about social work?”

“Sick.”

“No, seriously, Neville wants you to join the team.”

“Join the team? What friggin’ team? That’s not a team, it’s a show of gob-shites. God preserve me from teams, especially the caring ones.”

He managed to make caring sound more offensive than his usual obscenities.

“You don’t want to be a social worker?”

“Read my lips: I’d rather wank a snake.”

“Delicately put. Jeez, you’ve been reading The Guardian again. Time you got a real job Ford, you’re starting to sound English.”

This was the cardinal sin. The Irish would forgive their own most things, apart from success and “aping” the English. You could even get a Yank accent and they’d say you had “no sense”, only soft in the head. Become anglicised and you got otracised. Absolutely. Dead man walking.

“But I’ll drop in on old Neville. That’s too good to miss.”

“You’re not going to touch him!”

“God almighty, I have to work there.”

“See what I mean, Ford? You need to lighten up.”

“Any sign of that fifteen?”

Ford gave him ten and Dalton got up to leave.

“I’ve to go. Your wan will be drooling by now. Do you ever hear from Gracie?”

This pleased Ford hugely. The very mention of Grace’s name left him with the afterglow. That Dalton thought to ask filled him with contentment. Dalton drained his glass and borrowed a cigarette from the barman. Inhaling deeply he looked at Ford before he left and said, “I’ll tell you one thing. That Grace … She was probably the best fuck I’ve had in a long time.”

The Chinese say if you’re plotting revenge, you better dig two graves. Sure, said Ford, as long as one of them is deep and dirty. Quite what he meant by this wasn’t altogether certain but it did two things. It sounded mean and it sounded angry. He was hitting all the points on those.

Back at his flat he drank steadily. He nursed the hurt carefully and delicately. A pure hatred burned. The more he drank, the colder he felt. A gesture, he thought, I need a melodramatic action to seal the feeling. Yes, yes, of course. He stood and staggered a little. Rummaging in the table drawer he found the scissors. The sketch came easily from the wall and left a wide, blank mark, like mourning. The frame proved difficult and he couldn’t align the release catch. Furious, he put it down on the floor and brought his right shoe crashing down on the glass and hurt the heel of his foot. The crack was like a pistol shot and set his heart hammering. He dragged the sketch from the frame and still it resisted. The glass nicked his fingers and blood jumped across the table. “Damn you!” he roared and felt hot, bitter tears of frustration. The sketch was free. Without looking directly upon it, he began to hack and cut haphazardly. Pieces jerked and fell like wedding rice. Wedding rice! “Oh God,” he shouted. “Isn’t that just bloody priceless?”

Exhausted by rage, he sat back on the much noticed sofa. Wiping the sweat from his face had left streaks of blood there. The cuts on his hand began to throb faintly and he whimpered at intervals. “I’m the sitting wounded,” he said. Looking like some demented red Indian, he threw back his head and howled in clear and continuous anguish. All around him lay little vignettes of the Mississippi.

BOOK II

The steps toward Ford’s revenge began with his marriage. Just how this would damage Grace and Dalton, he wasn’t completely clear about. Like Indiana Jones, he felt he’d make it up as he went along.

At work Neville had said, “A mo please?”

Ford loathed many things, and shortening “moment” might top the list.

Neville continued, “I’m having a little drinks soiree on Thursday evening. My sis, Amanda, is up from the homestead. I’d like you to meet her.”

Soiree, sis, homestead! The words bounced on Ford’s head. A compulsion to fracture Neville’s jaw was nigh overpowering. No frills, just wallop him and roar, “Talk bloody English, will ya?”

What he said was, “I’ll be there.”

Graham Greene had died. Ford felt pathetic fallacy was pulling a fast one. He thought of all the joy those books had given him. A bitter joy in truth, like the sketch. The quote of Greene’s on religion surfaced:

“The church knows all the rules, but it doesn’t know what goes on in a single human heart.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Ford sighed.

He dressed carefully for Tuesday. A Van Heusen shirt he’d found at Oxfam. The tiny red mark on the collar was ketchup, he hoped. The knot of his tie was the Windsor. “How awfully appropriate,” he said. Permanent crease slacks that somehow had shortened. Maybe a burglar broke into homes and shortened trousers. A vicious type indeed. The slacks were grey, so Ford decided to risk all and go for the blazer. This was his legacy from the teaching days. Chalk had attached itself to the sleeves and neither prayer nor hope would move it.

Finally, he put on a stout pair of brogues he’d forgotten about. These were a formidable sight. Age had endowed them with a stiffness beyond description. “Ah God, the pain,” he said as the brogues began to crush his toes. “For pity-sake, I’m crucified.” Perhaps the pain would lend clarity to his thinking.

As he dressed he’d steadily drunk vodka from a mug. The mug had Snoopy emblazoned on the outside. Snoopy had the shit-eating cheerfulness that only a true sadist could have devised. The vodka was Poland’s finest and slid down quickly. Like intimidation, it hit you later.

Ford bent to examine his appearance in the wardrobe’s half mirror. Was it on himself or were the trousers shortening further? The brogues looked great and felt O.K. if you didn’t move. Ideal they’d be if you could bring them separately. “Here’s me shoes, the rest is coming.”

A vodka giggle escaped him. Giggle! Ford couldn’t believe it. Worse, he enjoyed it. The label on the bottle was in Polish so he wondered why he was trying to read it. A small symbol might have been a hundred degrees. Either this was good to drink in the tropics or it was mega proof. If the latter was true, well then, “Way to go.”

Grace moved into his head. After making love, he’d looked deep into her eyes, her expression was hard to decipher. Ford had said, “I miss two people when I’m not with you.”

“Oh yea?”

“I miss you and I miss the person you make me feel I am.”

“Schmuck,” said Grace.

Perhaps Polish in origin, mused Ford.

Neville had a flat in Kensington Church Street. Ford changed to the Circle Line, and the tube carriage was full of loud teenagers. He noticed the boys’ earrings were fancier than the girls. “Fancy that,” he thought, and suppressed a giggle. As he got off at Notting Hill, one of the girls yelled, “Hey Mister, yer pants is at half mast.”

Reams of dog abuse followed him till the door slid closed. A light perspiration popped along his forehead. A slow anxious drizzle drifted down his back. The shoes crucified him. If he walked stoop-fashion, maybe the pants would meet the shoes. Neville threw open the door.

“Ford! Bienvenue! Mi casa es su casa.”

Was it too late to run? It was. Neville pulled him inside. About twenty people were there. Like Neville, they wore jeans, T-shirts, and trainers. Not a tie in sight, windsored knots or otherwise. And, oh, never did trainers look such a height of comfort. The central heating was at full pitch and Ford felt gallons form beneath his shirt. In French, Neville asked Ford what he’d like to drink.

“For pity-sake, Neville, what are you saying?”

Neville beamed, which was not a pretty sight.

“What’s your poison, amigo?”

“Something lethal, I think.”

“Ah, that Ford humour! Your wish is my command.”

Introductions were made. A flurry of Clives, Normans, a Keith, and a stash of Cecilys, Beverleys and Sarahs. Ford slumped in an armchair. Sweat rolled down his face. A measure of his desperation was his wish for Dalton’s presence. Not his company, just his attitude. A girl sat on the chair next to him. He looked at her without interest. Small, but finely finished. Auburn hair to her shoulders, brown eyes, small button nose and a strong mouth. Jeans and a T-shirt, naturally. He’d have mugged her for the trainers.

“You’re perspiring, she said.”

What, he thought. Is there a neon sign above me that reads, “here sits he who sweats, gather all ye who wish to witness true perspiration.”

“Fuck off,” he said.

This made them both jump. The violence of the obscenity hung like a threat.

“So you’re Ford! I’m Amanda, Neville’s sister.”

“That figures,” said Ford.

“Will I get you a drink?”

“Yea, something to prolong depression.”

He watched her move. Nice ass, he thought, and stifled the Americanism. Grace ruled, but far-from-O.K. Amanda returned and gave him a long glass.

“Chin Chin,” she said.

“Christ!” said Ford.

He took a reckless swallow. Gin. Good. And then … Good grief! He spoke, “I’m sorry about the – er – the f …, you know.”

She answered in a passable Irish brogue, “Ah, there’s many would welcome a decent f …”

He nearly choked and in a rapid gin-change turn, he became philosophical.

“You hear people say, I f … her or him … rather than I made love and that’s because that’s exactly what they do. It’s aggression, not love.”

He looked closely at his glass. What on earth was in these to make him talk like that? Amand gave him a radiant smile.

“And you, Ford? What exactly is it you do?”

“Well,” he said, “mainly I do the very best I can.”

Over the next few weeks he did his best with Amanda. She was living with Neville till a flat could be found. Ford took her out almost every night to cinemas, theatres, restaurants. With her he drank little, and touched her even less. Each night he went home alone and drank with serious intent. All the music to hang yourself to was played. Linda Ronstadt’s “Heart Like a Wheel,” Willy and “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” The Furey Brothers with “Leaving Nancy.”

No matter how much booze he put away, he couldn’t play Waylon. He cried and drank. Mainly, though, he nurtured his plan for Dalton. The intensity of his hate stunned him. The bile his mind produced was to rock him to his very core. He knew it was eroding a vein of goodness he’d always had. Knew and was satisfied.

One wet Friday evening, he returned her earlier than usual to Neville’s. He was anxious to get off to his booze and plans. Necessarily in that order.

“Come up for coffee,” she said.

“Not tonight, thanks.”

“Or any night,” she paused. “Ford, this is not really a request. See it more as an imperial prerogative.”

“Phew-ow!” he said.

Amanda fussed with coffee filters, and a light Mozart played. Ford fumed. The coffee aroma was wonderful though not quite as magical as escape. Ford sat in a hard-back chair. The sofa he ignored.

“Rather safe there,” she said.

“Better safe than sorry”, he answered and, oh, how he wished he hadn’t.

“You’re not gay, are you?”

“Well, I’ve been happier.”

“Then it must be me. Am I so repellent?”

Oh God, he thought, tears next. And he was right. He reviewed his options. Drink the coffee, go to her, or weep himself. The third appealed most. He went to her. A flurry of wet kisses and awkward clinches led to them making love on the floor. The act was noteworthy for its haste rather than its passion.

“That was wonderful,” she said.

“Do you have any cigarettes?” he asked.

Ford had the horrible clarity that she was the type who’d lounge round in one of his shirts. All leg and innuendo. A stale box of cigarettes were found.

“Wow!” said Ford, “that tastes good.” It did too.

“I didn’t know you smoked. But then I didn’t know you’d be such a magnificent lover either.”

Ford had to look at her. Was she winding him up? He’d avoided looking into her eyes all during the love-making. No, she seemed serious. Worse, somewhat dewy-eyed. The only eyes Ford looked into were on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Grace. A chill touched his heart as he wondered if Amanda would now love him. Love could ruin the total plan.

“I think I love you,” she said.

“Better get an ashtray,” he said.

He knew he might well have a coronary if she called him anything affectionate.

“You have a shower, darling, and I’ll brew some fresh coffee.”

Like a man condemned, he slouched to the bathroom. He was scalding beneath the spray when he heard her come in. Oh, God in Heaven, why hadn’t he locked the door as easily as he’d bolted his heart?

“There’s a dressing gown for you here, darling.”

What! Were they already fifty years together? In jig-time she’d be finishing his sentences … and his plans.

Muttering, he toweled himself dry. Through the steam, he looked in the mirror. Even less hair when wet. Such adjectives as tousled, wind swept wouldn’t be a feature anymore. The horror of receding, thinning, and let’s face it, bald! Sign of virility eh … plu … ee … ze, as Gracie would say. The old, bald stallion perchance. That’s it, he swore, no more mirrors.

The dressing gown was of red silk. Cold, oh wow-ee. On the right hand breast was written, “Neville”. To remind himself was it? Did Neville lounge about in it and periodically glance down saying, “I know who I am, what about you, Mister?” Emerging from the bathroom, Ford felt ninety and all of them hard years.

Amanda was strewn on the couch, his Van Heusen shirt unbuttoned to reveal cleavage.

“Hey, big boy,” she said.

Ford liked her. He’d have been content to have her on the fringes of his life. Like Chinese food, you’d be glad of it periodically, but it wasn’t essential. The haunting question from one of William Trevor’s books: “Yes, but was she amazing?” No. How he wished she were. She’d all sorts of good qualities but, alas, no edge. If Ford knew anything, he knew that bad drop was a staple to his life. Now Grace, dare he say, was amazing. Amazing and in America.

An early conversation with Amanda had set the tone. A literary bomb if not in fact a literal one.

“Who’s your favorite writer?”

The only answer to this was Stephen King. That and throwing up.

“I dunno,” he said.

“I must return to the Russians,” she said.

Ford should have hit the hills then. Were the Russians like a return ticket that never expired? They hung about with a smug expression saying, “We know you’ll be back.” Amanda meandered on about romantic poets and the new realism. Ford just meandered.

A marriage date was set. Ford convinced himself that it was vital to his plan.

Neville said, “Tying the old knot wot? Sis is overjoyed.”

“My own cup runneth over,” said Ford.

The ceremony was muted. It took place at Kensington High Street Registry Office. Ford didn’t inform his family. To marry an Englishwoman … Phew! Parnell wasn’t that long dead. But a Registry Office? The fires of hell would burn long and gleeful. Dalton had been delighted.

“She’s loaded, that one,” he said. “Lotsa cash and connections. You landed on your feet, lad.”

“I like her.”

“Jaysus, who wouldn’t? She’s not bad looking, either. Big tits.”

Saturday prior to the wedding was the stag night. Ford’s plan came off the back the burner. He’d arranged to meet “the boys” in Pinches in Notting Hill. He rang Belle and invited her for a drink. She arrived in white. This set her dark skin shining.

“You look lovely,” said Ford.

“It’s a long time since I felt it,” she replied.

Her eyes had a sadness that Ford didn’t want to think about. Heads spun when he brought her into the bar. Ford left her talking to Neville and went to order. Dalton was on him.

“Ford, this is stag night. No women.”

“She’s not staying. Only a quick drink.”

“Are you screwin’ her?”

“God, Dalton, you’re some animal.”

“She’s some animal is what you mean. Jeez, look at the body on her. I could do with some black meat.”

Ford gulped down a neat whiskey. His resolve faltered. Choice time! But a bottle of sour mash on display sealed his fate.

He said slowly, “Well, the reason I brought her was she wants to meet you.”

“You’re coddin’!”

“No, but don’t let on, O.K.?”

“Jaysus, I’ll be up that like a rat in a drain.”

“How poetic,” said Ford.

A chain of whiskies later and Ford saw Dalton and Belle slip away. Something in his very heart withered. Neville was slapping him on the back, and Ford felt it was only to be expected. The evening finished with cabaret in Soho. Despite all his efforts, Ford didn’t pass out. All his life he’d remember the stripper planting a scarlet wet kiss on his mouth. It tasted more like nicotine and despair. It doesn’t come more bitter than that.

Back home they used the word “bronach” which fitted the hangover perfectly. It’s a mood of sadness and melancholy, liberally mixed. The Irish had the lock on sadness. Sure weren’t the very best of times underwritten by melancholia? They’d have taught Byron a thing or two. But he went to Greece and a fatal rendezvous with a mosquito. No mosquitoes in Ireland and very few flies on them either. So “bronach” it was. Sick too, but after a quart of scotch, who wasn’t? The CIA ruled. Catholic, Irish, Alcoholic.

Ford recalled Neville hugging him and muttering, “We’re a family!”

No wonder he was ill. T’was far from hugs Ford was reared. He grew up in a neighbourhood where the only touching going on was for money. You kept your hands to yourself. Put them on another human being, you’d lose them from the elbow. People there weren’t big on affection. No doubt there was love in his family. He knew that, bit you didn’t outwardly show it. The odd time the family were gathered for a meal it wasn’t likely you’d hear, “I love you, Mother, pass the sugar.” You didn’t ask how someone was feeling; it was more, “How are you fixed?” Cash was the emotional currency. If you cared, you’d put your money where your hug was. As for feelings, well, you felt one of two things. “Mighty” as when the drink flowed, or “death-warmed-over” like in pay-back-time. All the songs were sad, and sadness was the great comfort. Dignity and self-esteem sounded like the names of race horses.

Ford knew his marriage to an Englishwoman put him beyond the pale. “Notions”, they’d say; ideas above your station. Amanda had insisted he’d wear a wedding ring. “Yes,” he thought, “and fix it firmly through my nose.”

“To have and to hold …” Ford felt he’d been holding his own.

Now the plan was afoot, he’d be needing all the native cunning of his race. Amanda wore a plain white dress, her hair in ringlets. Ford wore the blazer, the shortening pants and his mind in bits. Balzac wrote, “Nothing prepares you for the heartless cruelty of people,” and Ford added, “But maybe a marriage could be the salvation yet.” Not that he believed it for a moment.

They went to Tenerife for a week’s honeymoon. Ford was mortified. He felt their bright, shiny rings were screaming for notice. “Hey, hey, look it her, we’re newlyweds.”

The plane was crammed with yahoos. Any hooligan could afford a plane ticket, and it seems most had. The Brits at play, if not in The Fields of The Lord, the certainly on a Boeing 747. No sooner did they take off than the duty free was indeed liberated. Drunken roars of “Una Paloma Blanca” rent the air. Ford knew all the airplane superstitions. If you heard the pilot whistling, don’t board the plane. Was it on himself or were the hostesses all whistling? As a child Ford was taught that homosexuals couldn’t whistle. Mind you, at that time in Ireland, they hadn’t much to whistle about. On any given day on Ford’s street, you’d hear all the young lads whistling for dear life. He remembered Lauren Bacall saying to Bogart, “You know how to whistle, just put your lips together and blow.” Which was probably all you’d need to know.

Amanda said, “Ti amo.”

“I think, sweetheart, that’s Italian.”

“Oh dear. Well in any language, I love you.”

Ford thought of ten rude answers. What he did though was put his lips together and … blow.

They stayed in the South of Tenerife. “Playa Los Americanos”, it was called.

The Americans, quite wisely, went to Greece.

Amanda brought her cassette player and throughout the week she played Julio Iglesias and Jose Feliciano. Jose Feliciano! Ford thought he’d gone down the toilet with Cat Stevens. He’d left all his whining music in London. Amanda got sun scorched the first day and had to stay indoors with the shades drawn. This also kept love making to a minimum. Ford sat in bars and had long drinks in long glasses. The sound of Tenerife for him was the clink of ice and Brit voices. Numerous Doris and Bills engaged him in conversation.

“Hot, isn’t it?” they began.

“Raining in England,” Ford said.

“Are you holidaying alone?”

“No, no, the little woman is resting.”

Ford varied the little woman’s activities to shopping, sailing, and sightseeing. The urge to say “irritating” was ferocious. He liked the Spanish mornings. He liked them a lot. Order that kick Spanish coffee with the dark brandy as an apprentice. Mix them, drink and feel your heart leap to rainbows. Put a few of those away and adrenaline was king. One such morning he’d lingered till noon.

“I think I love you Amanda,” said the brandy. “Race back to the hotel and tell her,” urged the caffeine. And race he did. Amanda was lying in the cool darkened room. A light, short T-shirt was all she wore. A besotted Ford was in full gallop.

Near to the moment of bliss Amanda said, “Are you nearly finished?”

Love died a-howling. This episode and Amanda’s sunburn kept them silent for the remainder. On the flight back she said, “I’m prepared to give you another chance.”

Ford said nowt.

They decided to live at Ford’s flat until bigger accommodation presented itself. Ford returned to work feeling he’d gained less a wife than a lodger and not a particularly welcome one. Bernard Shaw had written that marriage provides the maximum of temptation with the maximum of opportunity. Ford was now more than ever convinced that Shaw was an old fart. Lovemaking was not resumed. A polite iciness ruled.

“How was your day, dear?”

“Busy. And yours?”

“Ditto. Shepherds pie be all right?”

“Lovely.”

Dalton disappeared. He’d not been seen since the night of the stag party. Neville, anxious to recruit him, made enquiries daily. Neville, in truth, appeared anxious anyway. He kept shooting furtive looks at Ford.

“Is something the matter?” Ford asked.

“Well … no – er – Any word of our prospective colleague?”

“He’s been sighted at Archway, in Kentish Town and … even in Kerry.”

“Any substance perchance to these sightings?”

“Well, those who lent him money sure hope so.”

“I wonder if I might lure you for a drink this evening?”

“I’m lurable,” said Ford.

They went to the Sun ’n’ Splendour at the top of Portobello. Yuppies lined the bar, contempt lined their faces. What Ford wished to know was who lined their wallets?

“What’s your poison, amigo?” asked Neville.

“Southern Comfort, neat.”

“Ah, an American institution!”

“Take yer comfort when you can.”

“You had an American girl, yes?”

“Just a passing fancy.”

“Well, it leads nicely to what I wish to discuss.”

Neville was drinking gin and lemon. Slim-line lemon. He also got two bags of plain crisps and a large roasted peanuts. He poured the nuts into the crisps bag and began to horse them. Loud gnashing noises assaulted Ford. The Southern Comfort was little comfort against that. Ford walloped his and ordered the same again, without the snacks. Neville took the lemon from his glass and sucked it with fervent concentration.

“Jaysus,” said Ford.

“It cleans the teeth.”

“And clears the pub,” thought Ford.

“I’d like to discuss sex,” said Neville. Ford night choked.

“If you feel you must,” he said.

“This is a little delicate, I’m not sure how to proceed.”

With extreme caution, thought Ford, so he said, “Tell it to me plain.”

“Our family … the – er – Billings …”

“I know who you are.”

“The deuced thing is, we’re not big on sex, it’s a sort of family heirloom. We don’t rate it as among our priorities.”

“Some bloody heirloom! The family jewels not too valuable, eh?”

“Please Ford, this is most difficult.”

“For you and me both, mate.”

“You may be aware that Amanda is a tad shy in this – er – area.”

“Shy!”

“She’s most upset about the whole business.”

“You’re joking me, right?”

“Thus, I must implore you to be patient.”

“Well, damn the banging of that I ever heard, why didn’t you give me the nod before the wedding?” shouted Ford.

“A chap doesn’t like to presume.”

“For God’s sake! Jeez!”

“There’s one other item …”

“What? What other heirloom have ye?”

“I’m gay.”

“Oh, the Lord save us!”

A stunned silence settled over them. Many drinks were bought and lashed. Neither knew how or where to pick up the treads of the conversation. Finally, Neville made a show of looking at his watch.

“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour? I must fly. An appointment I’ve overlooked.”

The lie danced between them. Ford said nothing. Neville stood, considered something, and thought better not. When he reached the door, Ford shouted, “Hey, amigo?”

“Yes?”

“Can you whistle?”

Despite the yuppies, the pub was near enough to Portobello to draw the remnants of the hippies. What marked these apart was that they were old. Very old. And sad. They’d given peace a chance for just too long a decade. Social Security had rotted the concept of love and their teeth. Scraggles of them still moved through Notting Hill with lice in their hair if not flowers.

One such half baked specimen sat beside Ford. He’d got the regulation Afghan waist-jacket. A vicious launderette had inflicted awful torture on it. A million tainted silver bangles moved on his wrists. A pint of cider was half drained. He was fifty if a day. What blond hair remained was long and unkempt. A nod to Ford. Beside him Ford felt nigh full head of hair. The man’s leather sandals tapped.

“Got any smokes, man?”

“Ford gave him a Marlboro. He snapped the filter off and extracted a kitchen size box of matches from his jacket. A huge whoosh accompanied the strike. He near strangled the cigarette with his first pull.

A massive cough followed, “Argh … ugh …”

Ford said nothing.

“Wanna buy a T-shirt, man?”

“Not just now, thanks.”

He produced a long-from-white T-shirt with the logo “John Lives”. A particularly cruel looking Beatle peered forth.

“The Walrus, man,” he said.

“Indeed,” said Ford.

“Where were you when John died, man?”

Ford didn’t like to point out the discrepancy between the logo and this question.

“I’m in a bad frame of mind,” he said.

“I can dig it man, yea, that’s cool. Know where I was?”

“Offhand, I’d have to say no.”

“With Yoko, man.”

“You jest.”

“Just kidding, man. See where your karma’s at …”

“I get good vibes from you, man.”

“Which,” thought Ford, “is better than getting cash from me.”

“Wanna know where I really was? I was with Yoko, in spirit, of course.”

Ford had absolutely no interest in where this guy had been then, or since, so he said, “I’m fascinated.”

“In a South American jail. Yea. You probably saw Midnight Express? That’s Hollywood, man. The real thing was unreal.”

Unreal was what Ford felt best fitted.

“I got framed, man. For a drugs thing. Every morning, man, at nine, they came in and trashed us.”

“How awful,” said Ford.

“Yea, man. Awful! And awesome. See, they sometimes didn’t show at nine. And you’d be waiting, expectant like. If you can’t depend on a thrashin’, it messes with your head, know what I’m saying?”

Ford would have thrashed for a drink. But he didn’t want to buy the guy a drink. Mean, sure, but this guy had mean eyes.

He stood up and the guy jumped.

“What? You’re going?”

“Dear, oh dear, is that the hour, I must fly. An appointment I’d overlooked.”

He made the Neville show of looking at his watch.

“Got any loose bread, man? A ten spot’s good.”

“You don’t need bread, man,” said Ford.

“I’m not getting you?”

“Yea. Nor money either. John said, ‘All you need is love.’”

Back home, Ford, the very worst for Southern Comfort, made a fumbled embrace for Amanda. He had landed one hand on her breast and was planting a wet smooch on her neck. This made a loud “sluch” impossible to ignore. If embarrassment had a voice, it might be spoken thus. She said, “I don’t think this is on, fellah, wot?”

“Right. Er – Got a tad carried away, us being married and all.”

“Perhaps some time when you’re sober, darling.”

“That would be lovely,” said Ford. And, he thought, “yea, that and shepherd pie.”

Ford went to the fridge. Drink had created the massive artificial appetite that sex might have slaked. A dubious half chicken looked back at him. “Come home to roost,” thought Ford. He covered it lavishly with mayo and ladled shovels of coleslaw after. A mug of sweet tea to round up this gourmet fantasy. He was tearing thru this when Amanda looked in. Ford and the chicken waited.

“That’s really quite disgusting,” she said.

“Yea, but ’tis tasty. Come back here. I’m no family heirloom.”

But she’d gone. Ford looked at the demolished sad chicken and caressed it with one finger. “Ah, you’re my only friend and look how I treat you.” He sadly continued to chew and thought it faintly tasted of carbolic. A fierce thirst rose and he lashed down the sweet tea. “Oh jaysus,” he said.

Sleep snuck up on him and he laid his head down beside the dinner. One arm cradled the chicken and small sounds of desolation leaked from his mouth. To an observer it might have even looked as if the chicken was singing to him, and, in his dreams, perhaps it was.

At work the next day Neville adopted a civil tone. Courtesy on ice. This suited Ford who was as ill as he’d ever been. The police arrived about midday. In plain clothes, they had that politeness that slaps your face.

“You are Thomas A. Ford, of 11 Cockram Street?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Were you acquainted with one Isobelle Banks?”

“Were?”

“Please answer the question, sir.”

“Yes … I am … I was. God, is she alright? She was one of our clients.”

“I’m sorry to inform you, sir, that the lady appears to have taken her own life.”

“Appears? Is there a chance maybe …”

“No sire, it’s her. Any light you can shed on her state of mind?”

“State of Grace,” thought Ford. A spasm rushed through his system and he threw up in the waste basket. This had a label attached which read:

Social Services

Property of Wolberhampton Community

Care

DO NOT REMOVE.

He’d never noticed it before and wondered if the coppers would mention it. Sweat then tried to blind him. Madness in its purity somersaulted through his mind.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Chicken … Arch. The bloody chicken is back.”

The two policemen exchanged a look and withdrew. Ford fumbled for a pencil. On the blotter, he began to sketch a large menagerie of fowl. He worked quickly and rumbling pounded his stomach.

When he’d finished, he wrote across the top, “Foul Play.”

Neville gathered the staff for a homily. A drained Ford cadged a cigarette from the receptionist.

Neville began, “People, I’ve collected you en masse to speak of our current sadness. Our profession receives a bad press. We are the unsung soldiers in this urban land war. Isobella turned to us when all doors were barred. Let us not dwell on the tragedy but believe we gave her solace in the months before. For all the Isobellas out there, I say, “We are here for you. We dare to care. Our great Wordsworth might have known our plight when he wrote:

‘Let us not grieve for what

we have lost

but rather find strength

in what remains behind

let us remember in splendour

in the grass.’”

“Whoops,” thought Ford on these final words as Neville’s eyes locked with his. Sun ’n’ Splendour danced between them.

“Thus,” concluded Neville, “I reiterate, let us dare to care and care to dare.”

“What does he mean?” whispered the receptionist.

“That we’re wankers,” said Ford.

The receptionist was a small, blond girl from Aberdeen. Warm blue eyes, pert nose and a mouth built to smile. She had a threatening weight problem. This currently gave her an air of voluptuousness, and large breasts enhanced the image. If she wasn’t quite the American mammary vision, she was within shouting distance. Her name was Alison. Alison Dunbar. Like many Scots, she had a low tolerance for subtlety. Ford staggered outside. Leaning his forehead against the wall, he thanked the coolness. Alison followed him and said,

“All in all, just another brick in the was.”

“Pink Floyd?”

“Yes, do you like them?”

“I hate them.”

“Well, there’s no maybe in that.”

“Con men!”

“A bit strong, Tom.”

“Ford, call me Ford.”

“A wee bit sorry for yourself, are you?”

“No, but that Neville. What an egomaniac!”

“I’ve never been sure, Ford, what ego is?”

“Where he goes, e-goes.”

Alison accompanied Ford to the inquest. A verdict of death by misadventure was recorded. “Misadventure,” fumed Ford, like some excursion that had to be cancelled due to rain. A large black woman sat in the front row and sobbed loudly.

“Mrs Banks,” whispered Alison.

“Banks?”

“Isobelle’s mother.”

“Oh God!”

Afterwards, on the pavement, the woman stood and great heaves of grief hit her body in waves. Ford felt it would be best all around to let her be. Grief was a private thing.

“Excuse me,” he said.

Big mascara streaks ran down the woman’s fat cheeks. Thru the tears, Ford could see the warmest eyes he’d ever beheld.

“I hate to intrude, Mrs Banks … but … am … I’m so sorry.”

“Who you be, boy?”

“Oh, yes … right. I’m Ford … Thomas Ford, I … am … was … er … Bella’s counselor. No … her friend …”

Ford felt his full name sounded like he’d invented a motor car. Not a particularly exciting make either. The woman threw her arms round him. Ford thought she’d attacked him and let out a small “Argh!” The hug nigh suffocated him.

“A good mon … You be a good mon. Bella say you be white kindness … A true heart you be, Bella say.”

She released him and began to rummage in her huge, black handbag. A white crystal rosary beads was pulled out. “They be Bella’s, boy … I give them to you.”

She wrapped the beads round Ford’s hands and without another word, she turned and walked away. A shaking Ford looked at the beads on his hands. “Handcuffs,” he said. He knew with absolute conviction that the sentence she had passed on him was without any prospect of parole … Ever. He knew and was damned.

Ford went to the off-license. He ordered two bottles of Kentucky Sour Mash. The proprietor was a burly Sikh. He looked at Ford’s credit card as if it were rabid. A call was made to check the credit rating.

“This card’s no good,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Run out, it’s no good.”

He produced a large brass scissors. Ford thought he meant to stab him. A loud clip and the two pieces of plastic fell on the counter.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to do that,” whined Ford.

“It’s no good. Run out.”

“Cripes, you already said that. Do you have to tell the world”

Alison had enough cash to pay for a bottle of Scotch. The Sour Mash was put back on the shelf, like longing itself.

“C’mon, Ford,” said Alison.

He looked at the two bottles out of reach and very out of pocket.

“What’s with those bottles anyway?” she asked.

“Shades of Grace,” he said.

Alison had a single bed sitter in Earl’s Court. A single bed, a single window, and more loneliness than Leonard Cohen ever san about. It was spotless, and the vision of her cleaning this neat cell just about finished him.

“Let’s have hot toddies,” she said.

“And music,” he whispered.

An old Stones album was selected. As “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” began, Ford built some lethal drinks. Two spoons of sugar, big slurps of scotch, boiling water. Stir. “You can’t always git what you wan,” nasaled Jagger. Ford and Alison provided backup vocals.

“Wish we had cloves,” she said.

“Cloven feet.”

She didn’t have a big music section so they played the Stones again. And again. Ford slid his hand under her skirt and she smiled. He gently rolled down her tights and knickers and she lay back. A massive hammering began in his chest as he mounted her. Light perspiration dotted his forehead as he began to move in her.

“Just come,” she said. And he did.

Crammed together in the single bed, Alison cradled his head on her breasts. Soft cooing noises began in her throat as she started to sing, “Momma’s gonna buy you a mocking bird.” Her fingers gently caressed his face, and tears formed in his eyes. Her hand froze as his tears trickled and then washed over her fingers. Grief howled in him as her fingers wiped at his eyes. She continued to sing to him in her soft Scottish burr, and he slipped away to sleep.

He skipped work the next day and crept home. Alison had kissed him and said, “I’m here for you.”

He let himself into his flat with a heavy heart. Amanda was sipping coffee, an impressive volume lay open on her lap. The Russians, no doubt.

“What sort of hour do you call this?”

“Morning?”

“Don’t adopt that tone with me, Mister Ford!”

“Ary, take a tunning leap for yerself.”

“I beg your pardon!”

“Lep – a leap. You bend yer aristocratic legs, you hold yer whist, then you jump as if a large flea was up yer ass.”

While her face digested the shock, he continued, “And on considation, darling, I’d say in your case, a major flea.”

He turned on his heel and walked out. You had to hand it to them Stones, they got the juices flowing.

Neville fired him.

At work the following day, Alison whispered to him, “I think you’re for the high jump.”

“Or leap,” he said.

At coffee break, he was summoned. Neville had dressed for the occasion. A dark worsted suit and dark navy shirt. The school tie was un-windsored. He was all business, fixing papers and glancing at memos, ignoring Ford. Five minutes elapsed. He looked up from his desk.

“Ah, Ford, there you are.”

“I like the suit.”

“I have some bad news to convey.”

“Well, you have the clothes to prove it.”

“Ahem … Alas, I regret you haven’t proved to be the fettle for which I had hoped.”

“Fettle?”

“If I might continue, the business of Isobella, your conduct was not wholly professional. I’m not casting aspersions on your compassion. Your talents may lie in another discipline.”

“You’d know about discipline, wouldn’t you, Neville?”

“I’m not saying it’s entirely fair, but I must now give you a month’s notice. I will, of course, provide a reference.”

“Well, Neville, you’d like to change the world, am I right?”

“One tries.”

“Thing is … you’re not even capable of changing your mind. Stick your reference up yer tight ass. I’m outta here. You know why you’re firing me?” Neville stood, all flustered dignity. “That’s quite enough, Mr. Ford.” Ford yanked the still shiny wedding band from his finger and bounced it on the desk.

“Give that to your literary sister, amigo. Tell her it’s a family heirloom.” It didn’t take long to clear his desk. The phone rang. His cockney friend Bill said, “So Ford, aren’t you talking to me any more?”

“Oh, I’m talking to you, Bill, I’m just not talking to you very much.”

He put the phone down … and Bill. The staff stood awkwardly a moment and, as he prepared to leave, they all sat and busied themselves. “A sitting ovation,” he thought.

At his flat, he could hear the sad piano of Gershwin. Amanda was spray foaming the carpet.

“Don’t put your feet there,” she said.

He planted both feet where she’s indicated.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I’m far too busy for nonsense this morning, Mister, so allow me to continue.”

Ford rummaged through his work files for five minutes and didn’t look up.

“Ah, Amanda, there you are.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I have some bad news to convey.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Ahem … Alas, I regret you haven’t proved to be the fettle for which I had hoped.”

“Have you lost your senses? Fettle?”

“If I might continue, the business of the chicken, your conduct was not entirely professional. I’m not casting aspersions on your compassion. Your talents may lie in another discipline.”

Amanda just looked at him and he continued. “I’m not saying it’s entirely fair, but I must now give you a moment’s notice. I will of course provide a reference.”

“Are you telling me I have to leave our home?”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs Ford.”

He went to the kitchen and began to make coffee. Amanda stood amid the spray-foam. She didn’t remove her ring, shiny as it was.

As Ford sat, he listed all the reasons he shouldn’t go to the pub:

1. Daytime drinking

2. No job

3. Self-pity

4. Money

5. Hangovers

This list was good and he liked it a lot. Jumping up quickly he knew he’d have to run if he was to beat the lunch-time crowd.

Amanda said, “Athol Fuggard. I must make a sincere effort to read him.”

Ford didn’t really think a South African was the comfort she needed right now. They weren’t noted for it. The White Lion was a new pub for him. It was empty save for a few pensioners munching crisps and bickering over pension rights. Or was it the other way round? A big man behind the bar was cleaning glasses. His dominant feature was a riot of pure wavy, white hair. A broken nose took away from a tough, turn-down mouth. Beer had swollen his gut but a force came from him. The forearms were huge. He looked at Ford with neutral, blue eyes. The radio was playing loudly.

“Radio bother you?”

“No, sir, I like the wireless.”

“Sir, is it? Don’t hear much manners these days. Irish are yah? Wireless. Haven’t heard that much either.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My mother was from Mayo. The bad bitch.”

“The county? Or your … er –?”

The man smiled, “Not from Mayo, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good lad, what can I get you?”

“A pint of Guinness.”

As he prepared the drink in the Irish fashion, Barbara Streisand came over the radio. “Send In the Clowns.” Ford mad a supreme offer to block out the lyrics but he heard it. Clearly and loaded, “I’ve come to feel about you what it is you felt about me.” That past tense. It gutted him every single time. He thought too how it is the dead are forever confined to a single tense … And further thought he wished he didn’t. He ordered another pint and said, “Something for yourself?”

“Aye, I’ll charge you for a coffee. I’m Jack.”

“Ford.”

They shook hands self-consciously. Jack put a coffee on the counter and from beneath produced a bottle of Courvoisier Four Star. He dolloped a large measure into the cup. A healthy sip was taken.

“Ah, Jaysus, I’m lit!”

All lit up, thought Ford.

“Do you like music, son?”

“The whine kind.”

“Come again.”

“Music you can whine to.”

“Gotcha! The Irish connection. Not so much what you can sing to as cry along with.”

He then moved up and down doing bar things. A hive of activity punctuated by coffee pit stops. Ford had so wanted to tell Grace about “The Way We Were”. Streisand plays a radical student who falls in love with Redford’s young writer character. A passionate love follows, then break-up. The movie’s end, Redford’s now a successful commercial writer without belief. He’s emerging from a hotel with a bimbo on his arm. Streisand bumps into him. A look. Full of loss and might-have-beens. She puts her gloved hand on his face and her palm rests on his cheek. Then they separate. The moment to tell Grace this just never presented itself. Wasn’t too likely he’d get to tell her now. The awful thing was the very sound of her name was a kick. He loved and loathed it. What’s in a name, he’d thought, and back bounced the answer, “All you know of heaven and hell.” A vicious truth.

Jack settled for a moment and lit a Gauloise.

“I’ve never been to France, but every time I smoke one of these babes I reckon I’ll go tomorrow. What do you make of that?”

“Well, I dunno. I smoke Marlboros sometimes, but I’ve no desire to sit tough on a horse.”

“Gotcha! Makes you wonder what Silk Cutters dream about.”

Ford didn’t wonder and cared not at all. Amanda touted the Silk Cut argument and that basically was that. Jack sighed, “I’m well bollixed, you know.”

Did he mean well endowed? An advertisement perhaps. Or was he simply knackered? No reply was conceivable.

“What line of work are you in, Ford?”

“Looking.”

“Gotcha! What’s the previous?”

“Well, I thought I’d social work till an opening occurred as a waiter.” Jack liked that.

“You’re alright. What do you know about cocktails?”

“They’re expensive?”

“That too. Know how to make them?”

“I know how to drink them.”

“Sure, you’re half way there. That’s the hard part. What about ghetto blasters?”

“What about them? I don’t know how to make them. I hate them.”

“Right answer. So, want to be a barman?”

“Here?”

“Yes, Five nights a week, mornings free.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure am.”

“Okay, then. Thank you.”

“A few questions. Are you honest?”

“Mostly.”

“Married?”

“Not any more.”

“A nod to the wise old son. Don’t let on about that to Stella, my missus. She’s big on marriage.”

Ford thought about this and felt Jack’s own extremely irritating reply as appropriate. Cheeky perhaps, to use it, but there you go. He said, “Gotcha!”

“Gotcha! It’s cash in hand, we’ll not get confused with P45s and all of that.”

A man breezed in, semi-respectable. He ordered a large gin and asked, “How far is the tube station?”

“About one and a half muggings from here. Alternatively you could try for the bus which is but one rape down the block.”

Jack seemed well pleased and did a spin shine on the optics.

The man produced a pink two-pill packet, slit the edge and dropped them into the gin. They sank, dead weight. Ford stared.

“Aspirin,” said the man.

“Headache, have you?”

“No, no, I never get headaches. I drop a few of them suckers in everything I drink. Bingo! I’ve never had an illness in my life.”

“Save the serious one in your head,” thought Ford.

The man drained the gin. The pills sat unmoved at the bottom, like bank managers. “’Fraid I threw something of a wobbly this morning,” he said.

“Is that like throwing a Frisbee?”

“Tantrum, actually. Doris. That’s my good lady. She told me my white shirts were all in the wash. Well, I mean … Really! So I gave her ‘what’s for.’ A tad over the top, on reflection.”

Ford shut him out. Grace took centre stage anew. She said to him once, “You’re kind.”

“Thank you.”

“Problem is … kind of what?”

He smiled as he heard her accent. Sometimes, a huskiness ruled and that gave him literal goosebumps. Could you love a voice? Yea, and all the rest too. Weariness swamped him and he bid goodbye to Jack. The aspirin man was still on about white shirts.

As he left, Emmylou Harris on the wireless burned him with the line “And the hardest part is knowing I’ll survive.” He recalled the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” What could you say? Phew-oh, perhaps, and add to that what it was he felt most all the time now, a sadness of infinity.

When he got home, he thought first he’d been burgled. The place was stripped. Even the carpets were gone. He considered checking if any trousers were shorter. Amanda had gone alright and took anything that moved. She’d left him one of everything: one cup, one knife, one towel, one massive resentment.

As the movers had obviously been in a ferocious hurry, care had not been their motto. Heaps of debris lay on the now bare wooden floors. He quite liked the sound of his boots in the emptiness. “I can hear me coming,” he said. The few skinny bones of the sad chicken were in the bathroom. Had it tried for a last shower? A postcard near the upturned mattress caught his eye. It was from Boston and had been posted weeks ago. So, how come he’d never seen it? It read:

“Hi Ford,

We’ve moved to Boston. New York left me unmoved. Guess what fella, I miss you. Doing any wailing? I think I am. Back one for me. Grace.”

Gutted! Oh God in Heaven, it was like being shot. Gut shot, and twice. How long had the card been here? How was he to feel? How did this mean she felt? How … Howling. Wouldn’t you know? The Kenny Loggin’s song began to unwind and slow play in his head:

“You say please come to Boston for the Springtime,

You’re staying there with friends,

I can sell my paintings on the sidewalk

By a café, where you hope to be working soon.”

Ah, Jaysus! Gimme a break here. Dollop on shovels of slush. Worse. The version playing was by Tammy Wynette. If God selected the discs from the celestial jukebox, He was in some manic frame of mind.

His career as a barman began, and he was good. A flair for figures helped him with change and, if in doubt, he undercharged. No one questions that. The cocktails he just laced with spirits base, and if they lacked the finer points they delivered a mighty wallop. The demand for these grenades increased. The big factor was his politeness, an art long lost in London. Shop assistants took courses in surliness. His attitude freaked them completely, and even assholes got the treatment. Jack was delighted.

“You’re a good un.”

“Thanks.”

He then produced a baseball bat and swung it slowly. The swish cut a low mean music.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“Hard to ignore.”

“You hear that, Ford, it’s already too late. Do you know what I’m saying? I call it ‘my edge’.”

“Your customer relations act, so to speak?”

“Exactly.”

In fact, the bat had only to be produced and trouble changed its mind. Jack’s wife was almost a caricature of “The Guvnor’s Missus”. A breezy blonde, she wore the mandatory half sovereign rings. Ugly yokes that matched her moods. Cheap and loud. She liked the power and was forever demanding glasses be re-polished, floors scrubbed, the brass fixtures full shines. Everybody was called “darling.” Not from affection, but sheer bloody mindedness. When she called, you did well to count your change. Vodka with bitter lemon was her staple diet, and the bar hummed with litany, “Put a little vodka in that, darling.” In looks she wasn’t unlike the said Tammy Wynette but a somewhat beat up version. That she modeled herself on Tammy was a cruel blow to country music. Lest you hadn’t spotted the vague likeness, she had all the lady’s albums and played them. A lot. Her all time favorite was d-i-v-o-r-c-e – “My d-i-v-o-r-c-e came thru today and me and little J-o-e are going a-w-a-y …”

She’d enunciate each letter along with the bold Miss Wynette. The Boston song wasn’t in her repertoire, else Ford might well have quit. Or brought “the edge” to bear. After a bathe, or two, of vodka, a slight hint of Tennessee drawl crept into her speech. Fair enough, except it clashed with the South East vowels. The customers were nightly bid.

“Ya’ll take care now, and ya’ll come back and see us real soon.”

From badness, Ford introduced her to Kentucky Sour Mash. The mule kicked, and she kicked right along. He felt there wasn’t a whole lot the matter with Stella that a solid shoe in the ass wouldn’t fix. Staggering from the cellar with the crates of bitter lemon one evening, waiting for Ford was a swaying Stella.

“Y’all wanna feel the merchandise, honey?”

This said in the dialect of S.E.11 was quite alarming.

“Not just now, ma’am,” said Ford in a very poor Elvis parody.

“Gimme a kiss, darling.”

And she groped for him. The crates of bitter lemon didn’t smooth the embrace. A sucking sound ensued as she planted a big one to the left of his nose.

“Oh Jaysus,” he said, Elvis forgotten. She reached for his fly and expertly got her hand inside. The rings chilled his scrotum.

“Who’s this, then?” she asked.

“Shake hands with the devil,” he groaned.

He had her on the floor. The crates of lemon mocked him bitter as he pounded into her. As he zipped up and prepared to lift the crates, a slur in Tennessee drawl said, “Y’all come back and visit soon, hear?”

CONCLUSION

A year passed thus. Ford became a faster barman and infrequently banged Stella. Speed helped here also. Twixt the Grace longings and the Stella couplings, he began to love Alison. Their relationship built, and it was the music in his life. He could talk about Grace, a vague voice wondered if a little too much. Naw, Ally didn’t mind. What he adored was the songs she soft-sang. After making love, she’d lilt some lullaby from a long ago place. Once he’d called her Grace but was fairly certain he got away with it. Yea, she hadn’t heard.

Amanda had divorced him in nigh jig time. It wasn’t contested. In fact, it was close to him not even hearing it. Neville had friends who rushed it through. Ford felt a divorce was evidence you’d been here. Not too successfully perhaps, but it dented the anonymity.

Jack was paying him well, and all sorts of side benefits brought cash. People were as likely to give half a dozen free shirts as a slap in the mouth. The shirts last longer. Thus he began to plan the “Ceremony of the Rings.” The Irish wedding ring has a heart clasped by two hands, topped but a crown. Icing on the cake. It originated in The Claddagh in Galway. In Ireland it was known as the Claddagh or Heart in Hand ring. Plainly titled. Due to the English never having heard of Claddagh and not being able to pronounce it, they called it the Irish wedding ring. The heart was worn inwards if you were spoken for. Outwards if you’d like to be spoken to – you were hunting. Ford wanted to buy two. The plan was a candlelit room, haunting music and he’d produce the rings. No words need be spoken. They’d slip the rings on and then slip into something more comfortable, like each other. Hours of warmth from this scenario. After a particularly sweaty wrestle with Stella, he’d mind-play the ceremony and believe it cleansed him.

A hand-written note arrived from Neville late that February. It was addressed to “Mr Ford” and read:

Mr Ford,

It is imperative you contact me.

Neville R. Biggins, B.S.C.

Ford phoned him and was put through.

“Ah, Mr Ford.”

“I got your imperative.”

“Yes, well, the matter is of some delicacy and perhaps we could meet for an aperitif.”

“A drink, you mean?”

“Yes, quite. Would 6:30 on Thursday at Finchs be convenient?”

“I’ll be there.”

And he was. Neville had the executioners suit, the dark worsted number.

“A drink, Mr Ford?”

“Got one, thanks.”

Neville ordered a large schooner of dry sherry. Sipped it, fixed the crease in his pants and forehead and began.

“I trust we can be civilized about this?”

“Trust is an earned thing, Nev, and in my book, you’re all outta credit.”

“Be that as it may. Er – Amanda has produced a child.”

“What? Jeez! Produced! Like suddenly flashed from her handbag?”

“A girl-child. Healthy and strong.”

“Good grief! Girl-child? You sound like something from Kipling. Who’s the father?”

“I feared you’d be disgusting, but really, that’s low even for you, Mr Ford.”

“I’m sorry. Truly, I apologise. It’s a shock. I didn’t mean that. O.K. sorry.”

“Yes, well, watch your mouth. I’m a tolerant man, but there are limits and I’m trained in the self-defence arts. The child was named Annabel-Lee.”

“You’re coddin’! Like in the Edgar Allen Poe poem?”

“It was my mother’s name.”

“When can I see her?”

“That’s the crux. Amanda says … She says you’ll never, never see her. Those are her exact words.”

“You can’t! Jeez, c’mon Neville! You can’t do that.”

“Can. Already have. And will continue.”

“You’re some bollix. God, don’t do this.”

Neville drained his sherry. A grim smile danced on and off.

“Never, Mr Ford. As far as you’re concerned, you are without issue. Now, I must visit the bathroom. Our business is concluded. I don’t expect our paths to cross again. I bid you adieu.”

The smile had grown full to an actual smirk. Imaginary crumbs were brushed from a crease and he marched briskly to the toilet. Ford’s heart hammered like a wild thing. Red spots hummed in the very air. As he lifted the glass, his hand shook. Standing slowly, he followed Neville. The toilet was well kept, shining sink and mirrors. Neville was relieving himself, his back to Ford. Turning the cold tap, Ford mopped his face, the reflection showed a face in granite shock. The water was tepid but the coldness forming in his gut was ice in purity. Neville turned. A look of disinterest.

“Is there any point in pleading, Neville? I will … I’ll beg, grovel, whatever. Do they need money? I have money. I have, honestly.”

“Keep your money, Mr Ford. Use it for alcohol or some other Irish activities.”

The first blow smashed Neville’s nose and threw him back against the urinals. Ford bent, put his knee in his chest and slowly, methodically, began to, open palmed, slap the bleeding face.

“You fuck! I’m going to kill you!”

Slap. Pause. Slap. Back. A silence crept above the roof of the toilet, broken only by the sharp rhythm of the beating.

Neville lived, and Ford was arrested. They took him to Jeb Avenue, home of the brave, if not the free.

Brixton Prison. A grim place for remand prisoners Ford had grown up with black and white prison movies. You did hard time or “rolled over.” Roll too your own tobacco and let no one fuck with you. In any sense.

The more current American movies were of the Clint Eastwood mentality. Hang tough. You picked out the meanest “muttah fuckah” in the yard and beat him to a pulp. Rather a surprise for that individual, thought Ford. Each new arrival had to stomp the man. Then no one messed with you. You had “tutto respecto.” Lest a chap plunge a shiv in your back, you narrowed your eyes a lot.

The reality was totally different. He did two days there and what it was … was boring. Long tedious days and overcrowded. Like being in a permanent football crowd. A skinny thug tried to head-butt him but his heart wasn’t into it. The smell was the worst. A mix of cabbage and stale urine.

A guy offered Ford a prison tattoo. The notion of Grace on his arm amused him. Perhaps “Millwall” on the other. What he said was “Give me a break. Piss off.” Hangin’ semi-tough.

Jack went to Court with and for him. The charge of grievous bodily harm was reduced to drunken assault. Ford was bound over for two years.

“Thanks, Jack, you helped a lot,” Ford said outside the Court.

“Gotcha! Your reputation will be more effective than my ‘edge’ for boozies.”

“Seriously, though, I could have gone to prison.”

“Ah, I’ve been inside myself. Half of London would like to wallop a social worker.”

“And the other half?”

“They are the social workers.”

The Sun wrote a small article on the affair with the heading;

“Social Services Director Mauled by Former Colleague”

“Neville Biggins, BSC, was accosted and assaulted by a disgruntled colleague in the toilet of a public house. Thomas Ford, an Irishman, was said by a confidential source, to have gone berserk and threatened to blow up the Dept. of Social Services. The Judge called Ford (36) a public menace. The case continues.”

The story underneath exposed a major rock star’s obsession with his dead dog. Ford kept the clipping. Maybe send it to Boston and see what shook loose.

Back to work and to Alison. Her Scottish background understood all about the police and pub brawls. The ceremony of the rings moved closer. A week after the court case, Ford went to his bank. He asked for “new accounts.” An assistant manager summoned him. Ford sat at the small desk. The nameplate read “A. Richards.” As opposed to A. Wanker, mused Ford. A. Richards was about thirty, in there. Neville would have liked the suit. Brown wool with a discreet stripe. Bald on top, A. Richards had seriously swept hair from the side to cover this. It didn’t. Thick glasses hid his eyes and the adjective prissy leapt to mind for his mouth. The desk said, “this is a busy man.”

“Mr …” he looked at his notes, “Ford.”

“You already have an account with us?”

“I’d like to open one for my daughter.”

“Splendid. A savings account, I’d suggest. Her name, please?”

“Annabell-Lee Ford.” His throat choked as he slowly said this.

A wee man kicked his heart, and hard.

“The mother?”

“I don’t want to open an account for her.”

A. Richards gave a professional laugh. An unpleasant sound.

“Of course. But I’ll need her name.”

“Why?”

“For our records. Very important, Mr Ford, for next of kin, etc. Not that I’m not certain you’ll outlive us all.”

He was beginning to seriously irritate Ford. Perhaps The Sun clipping would soften his cough.

“Amanda Biggins.”

“Biggins. Is that Amanda Biggins hyphen Ford?”

“We’re divorced. D-i-v-o-r-c-e, like in Tammy Wynette. Jeez, it’s hard to give money to you crowd.”

“How will the money be paid in, Mr Ford?”

“Carefully. Quarter of my weekly salary.”

“Capital. Jolly good. A few days to process the paperwork and your book will be sent out. Good day to you, sir.”

Ford didn’t move.

“There was something else?”

“A question. Do you like your work?”

“Rather. One does one’s best.”

Ford stood up and leaned across the desk. He looked into what was visible of the eyes of A. Richards and said, “One felt you’d say that.”

He bought a small cardboard box and adhesive labels. Alison had typed the name for him: “Annabell-Lee Ford, c/o Neville Biggins, 29 Kensington Church Street.” She didn’t comment. Carefully he wrapped the white rosary beads in crepe paper and put it in the box. A surge of grief begged for release. Sellotaping the box, he applied the label. A hand tremor caused this to appear crooked. “Like yer inlaws,” he said. Gently sliding the package into the post box, he muttered the words from Belle’s mother, “Who you be boy?” Indeed!

Outside the Post Office, an apprentice thug held a rottweiler on a thin leash. The dog’s jaws leaked spittle. The thug, though, appeared to have the edge in madness if the eyes were any indication. Both wore spiked collars. You sensed that neither had yet achieved the full potential in thuggery, but were getting there. He wore a red T-shirt which proclaimed “Shit Happens”. “And sooner than you ever imagined,” said Ford. Though the slogan might not achieve the wisdom of the ages, it was current and it had a ring to it. “Would suit Neville, match up with his dark worsted.”

Ford was cleaning the bar. The only customer was an old Irish lady drinking a milk stout. Everyone said, “She has a heart of gold.” In other words, a nobody. The door swung and Dalton walked in. A very different model. The swagger was gone. Weight hadn’t so much fallen from him as fled. His usual furtive look had become one of total desperation. Ford hadn’t seen him for well over a year.

“It’s yerself,” he said.

“Yea … Give us a big drink.”

No hugs of reunion here. A double whiskey was put before him. Draining it, he looked round and saw the old lady.

“Who’s the oul biddy?”

“She’s got a heart of gold.”

“I’ll bet, sewn in the drawers, I’d say. You’re a hard man to find, Ford. What have you been up to?”

“Well, let’s see, I got fired, married, divorced, arrested and convicted.”

If any of this was a surprise to Dalton, he didn’t show it. He said, “And did you rest on Sundays? That Neville sacked you, did he? The bad bastard. Want him fixed?”

“Fixed?”

“Yea. A ton will buy a full beating and he won’t be squealing to no one.”

“Naw. Thanks all the same. What’s your story?”

Belle hovered in the air between them. Another double was poured and put away.

“Remember that black wan. I slipped her a mickey finn. And later, I slipped a little Irish into her. Know wot I mean?”

“Jaysus!”

“Yea. Well, a while ago, I musta caught some bug. I’m cold all the time and feverish. My throat muscles keep locking. Christ, it’s terrible. I’ve had tests done and I’ll hear next week. What do you think?”

“Sounds rough. I’m sure they have something for it.”

What he thought next was, “Yea, a coffin.” He looked at Dalton and felt hatred like a shroud envelop him.

Dalton said, “I need a fair bit of cash. I’ll get it back to you, don’t worry. But it’s like, I’m in a hurry.”

“Upstairs, the end room. There’s the till takings from last night. We’re forever being turned over here, so no worries. There’s only me here at the moment so you’re safe. Just be quiet and quick.”

“Jeez, you’re a life saver, Ford. What did I always say? You’re one of the very best.”

“I’m well graced, so to speak.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Better do it before the Guvnor arrives. He’s a tough one.”

“Ah, all them crowd are wankers. The day they worry me, I’ll pack it in. Catch ya later.”

Those were the last words Ford heard from him. After Dalton slipped up the stairs, he lifted the phone.

“Jack, I don’t know if I’m imagining it or not but I think I heard someone on the landing. I was in the cellar for a few minutes. Will I come up?”

“No, son. Leave it to me.”

A ferocious racket erupted, and then Dalton was carried by the seat of his pants down the stairs. Jack had the bat in his other hand. Across the bar and flung into the street.

Jack said quietly, “If I see you again, I’ll kill you,” and he shut the door.

“Well done, Ford.”

Ford had read how the use of brutality itself brutalises. What he felt might be even worse – self righteous and justified.

The Ceremony of the Rings!

The day had come. He read his horoscope and it promised “Momentous events to those who care.” Sounded not unlike Neville. A lot of Uranus entering cusps of Capricorn, which was highly suggestive if not downright lewd.

“Lewdness is good,” he said.

He withdrew a wedge of cash from the bank. It sat in his pocket like reassurance. Then the jewelers. A gaggle of schoolgirls were, as usual, outside. Shrieking and pointing, the window display brought them to fever pitch. A well dressed man asked him for Guy’s Hospital. Ford went to pains to tell him, and the man said, “Might I trouble you for the price of a meal?”

“Ya chancer. Hoppit!”

“Wooftah! You bald wooftah.”

A little shaken, Ford purchased two Irish wedding rings and spent more than he’d planned. “Thin end of the wedge,” he lamented. Next, two bottles of Chivas Regal and back to the bank for further funds. The same teller said, “Have you considered the benefits of a credit card?”

“Have you considered the merits of minding your own bloody business?”

Well pleased, if poorer, he next purchased a dozen long-stemmed roses. The price rocked him.

“Bit steep,” he said.

“A rose is forever,” said the dreamy sales assistant.

“Jeez, it would need to be.”

He called Alison and arranged for her to arrive at eight. A call to “Gourmet Services” and a hot, sealed dinner was scheduled for home delivery at seven thirty. The Chivas Regal was opened and he poured himself a big one. “Ain’t Life Grand” was the song he hummed.

Fair damage was done to the first bottle when Alison arrived. She’d had her hair done. A tight, black miniskirt set Ford’s pulse zooming. The roses pleased her immensely. The gourmet meal hadn’t arrived so he began to kiss her neck. His hand slid under her skirt, and in jig time he was astride her.

As he came, the blood pounded in his ears and he said, “Oh my God! Oh! Argh! I love you. Oh … Grace, I love you.”

That he loved her now wasn’t open to even the slightest doubt. He’d bought two extra large, white T-shirts and they sat in the afterglow. The T-shirts read “We’re a couple of Scouts.” He’d managed to blank out the “u” and Alison was delighted. Ford took her hand and began to slide the ring on her finger … It didn’t fit, not any finger … His own fit. Too tight, and he knew only prayer and soap would next detach it. It squeezed like amputation.

“Will you, Alison Dunbar, marry me?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

Elvis was singing in the background, “I jest can’t help believing, when she slips her hand in my hand, and it feels so small and helpless …”

And was it pure sadism, or was The King deliberately emphasizing, “This time the girl is gonna stay”?

Maybe she hadn’t heard right.

“I’m asking you to marry me!”

“I know that, and NO, I won’t.”

“You can’t be serious. I love you.”

“You love Grace! You call me that all the time. In fact, you just did.”

“A name! A bloody name. You’re turning me down over a friggin’ name.”

“That name. Yes. And … I don’t love you.”

“You don’t love me! You’ve been stringing me along. I can’t believe it. You … hussy!”

Alison gave a mighty laugh from deep within her.

“Hussy! Well, where on earth did you find that?”

Ford struggled to his feet. “Out! Get outta my house … my life.”

Alison took her time dressing. Ford rushed through a series of drinks, all ball busters.

“Alison, what did we just have here, eh?”

“What we had was lovely.”

She opened the door and a man in a white jumpsuit said, “Gourmet deliveries.”

“In there,” she said as she departed.

The food was deposited on the coffee table. Alison’s ring sparkled beside it. In a daze, Ford pushed a bundle of notes at the man who counted it carefully. He stood waiting.

“What? Is there a problem?”

“No tip?”

“No friggin wonder. Here, d’ya like roses? Give them to your girlfriend.”

The gourmet took them and left muttering darkly about lunatics. With a ferocious sweep of his arm, Ford took all the food from the table. He kicked the cartons for good measure. In a paraphrase of the old saying, he thought:

“To lose one woman is accidental

To lose a second is tragic

But to lose a third … It was downright criminal.”

“What in heavens name is wrong with them?” he roared.

Grace had told him once, “Never talk to a woman about another woman.” And he’d asked, “Even if she asks you?” “Especially not then.” “Wow”, he thought. Why hadn’t I heeded it? Advice always seemed particularly wise after you’d ignored it.

He was sitting in the bar with Jack after closing time. They were sipping beer with whiskey chasers.

“Hits the spot,” said Jack.

“Yea.”

It was a week since Alison’s departure. The ring stubbornly refused to budge. It clung. Like gossip. Hurt too. The loss of her had shocked him. A hole seemed to sit in his gut. Jack said, “This business suits you.”

“I like it.”

“Ever think of getting your own pub? I’d recommend you to the Brewery.”

“I dunno.”

“Thing is, you’d have to be married.”

“Oh!”

“What about young Alison? I thought you were serious there.”

“Her? No. No, I blew her out. She started talking about love and stuff.”

“Jump ’em and leave ’em, eh Ford?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, have a think about it. See me and Stella … made for each other. She’s never looked at another man since me. Want to know why?”

“Er – Okay, why?”

“Bed. I give her enough. She’s not likely to stray, and that’s the secret. Good humping.”

Ford drained his glass. A mountain of tankards waited to be washed.

“Better get going on that lot.”

“Naw, leave it. Lemme tell you how to satisfy a woman.”

Ford’s heart sank. The word that leapt to his lips was “wooftah”.

On his free mornings, he began to frequent that bar off New Oxford Street. It was here she’d asked, “So Ford, wanna get laid or what?”

Tommy, the barman with the lopsided grin, was still there. He still smelt of Old Spice and old ruin. If he remembered Ford, he hid it well.

“Remember me, Tommy?”

“Can’t say that I do, John.”

“Actually, it’s Ford.”

“Whatever you say, John. You want a drink or conversation?”

“Sour Mash.”

“Coming up.”

Ford couldn’t leave it alone.

“Remember Grace?”

“An American chick?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

“Listen, John, everyone remembers Grace.”

“Oh! I see.”

He didn’t, and certainly didn’t wish to pursue this. Over the next six months he got there about three mornings a week. Each time, Tommy called him John and acted as if he’d never seen him before. It wasn’t even personal. He called everyone John.

Ford drank sour mash and brooded. Sometimes he played the jukebox. The old rock and rollers. Everly Brothers, Buddy Holly. Like that.

One morning he was startled to hear Tommy speak to a customer.

“The bloke over there. Looks half asleep. He’s a sour mash drinker too.”

He looked up … There she was. Those blue, blue eyes. Dressed in a grey sweatshirt and nigh faded blue jeans. These were tucked into soft leather boots. Her hair was now to her shoulders. The sweatshirt logo read “I’d rather be in Philadelphia.” Ford knew W.C. Fields loathed that city. On his tombstone was such an inscription. She smiled and walked over.

“Bin waiting long?”

“Two years.”

“Sorry I’m late then.”

Silence. They eyed each other. He loved what he saw. She just saw.

“Are you back long?” he asked.

“Like six months, I guess.”

“You didn’t think to ring me?”

“Guess not.”

Another silence. He wanted to throw his arms round her and plead love and adoration. But hurt too, he wanted to lash out and see pain. As the silence built, he got up and ordered a double round of sour mash.

“I thought of you the other week, Ford.”

His heart leapt.

“The Quiet Man”. We caught it on cable. I said to Cecil, “Hey, Cecil, I know a guy like that.”

Cecil! Bloody Cecil. And he couldn’t resist it. He had to know.

“The John Wayne character?”

“Hell, no. The little guy. The priest. Barry something or another.”

“Fitzgerald. That was Barry Fitzgerald.”

That was the trigger. He started to speak, and in a low monotone he told her of all the events since last he’d seen her. She was silent as the saga unfolded and at odd moments, signaled to Tommy for fresh drinks. Near exhaustion, Ford finished and swallowed the nearest drink.

“Jesus H. Ke-rist! Well, way to go, Ford.”

“That’s it, Grace? That’s all you have to say, ‘Way to go’?”

“Well, it’s interesting, but I mean, it’s not high drama, is it?”

Rage engulfed him.

“Well, I thought the Dalton bit would worry you?”

“Dalton! Why would that worry me? You mean the vicious little guy who panhandled?”

“Yea. The guy who fucked you.”

Astonishment lit her face, and he knew it had never happened. Relief and rage battled for supremacy. Grace’s face clouded and she leant over. For a kiss, he prayed.

“Just wait one ga-damn minute! I get it … He told you that and you … you dumb bastard! You believed him, didn’t you? All the rest, your pathetic story. You did it for revenge. You poor, dumb shit-kicker. All your grand design … Based on an empty premise. You sorry schmuck … You prize horse’s ass!’

She stood up. Panic grabbed him.

“Grace … Oh God! Grace, listen …”

“Take a hike, buddy. You’re one sick son-of-a-bitch.” And she was gone.

Gone, and he knew – forever. Horse’s ass. Good Lord! What a term! Him?

He looked up to see an effeminate man at the bar. The guy moved his hand suggestively to his crotch. Slow turning, he pouted his lips and blew a kiss to Ford. Perhaps there was such a thing as unisex violence, thought Ford and then he said, “Nothing … tis nothing but a passing fancy.” He surveyed the carnage of empty glasses. Very cautiously and with full deliberation he began to whistle. And whistle as if he meant it.