England Away Page 5

  Harry saw himself walking into Bang. He was looking good, with his head freshly shaved and a new Ben Sherman ironed by some bird at the luxury hotel. He’d been swimming in the hotel pool and then had a massage and blow job off a blonde number in silk stockings. She didn’t even try to charge. He’d gone back to his room and eaten steak and chips and drunk a nice pint of lager delivered by an old boy who’d served in the war. He’d even given the man a tip. Now he was out and about, calling a taxi from reception, surrounded by wealthy American businessmen, ten minutes later racing through the Berlin streets to Bang. He was walking into Ingrid’s club with his head held high and straight into her arms, the Green cunt with the bog brush old news, Harry sitting at the bar enjoying the chat and flavour of the place. He would drink till closing and follow Ingrid upstairs for a night of non-stop sex.

  – Who was that bird you were talking to? Billy Bright asked, sitting down next to Harry.

  – She’s German. Works in a bar in Berlin.

  Harry showed Brighty the card.

  – Sounds like a fucking queer bar, he said, sneering. What kind of name is Bang. Must be full of shirt-lifters. We’ll wreck the place.

  – Never thought of that. Suppose she looks a bit trendy.

  – Nice arse on it.

  – Bit flat-chested.

  Billy laughed.

  – It’s probably alright. We should go down there and see if she’s got any mates.

  Harry didn’t fancy Brighty coming along. He was planning a private party. He wanted to get out and about on his own. It was a killer that, going along hoping to get your leg over and taking a fucking mob as well. If Carter turned up, he’d be in there before Harry finished his first drink, and the rest of the boys would have a couple of lagers, rob the till and put all the windows through.

  – I’ll take some tapes along, Billy said. I spent last week getting them together. Marching bands, Oi! and some modern stuff. A patriotic soundtrack for the trip. You know what these bars are like over in Europe. It’s all poppy shit. You need some decent sounds to keep you happy.

  Harry nodded. He looked at DJ Bright the bulldog mixmaster. It was a good idea. Billy opened the bag he was carrying and showed Harry the cassette player and ten or so tapes. It made sense, because you never got to listen to the music you wanted as the radio had its own ideas on what to play. The wind started pushing harder and Billy closed the bag quickly so the spitting rain didn’t get in and ruin his music.

  – Where have the others gone? he asked, looking around the empty deck.

  – They’re in the bar.

  – I think I’ll follow them. It’s getting rough up here. You coming?

  Harry was staying a bit longer. He’d always liked the rain; it was the rocking of the sea that did him in. DJ Bright looked at Harry as though he was mad and nodded, showing he understood.

  It was still early, but with two pints of Director’s in his belly it was the right time for Farrell to go home. He said goodnight to Bob and put his mug on the bar for Denise. She was a sweet girl and smiled at the pensioner. It was a fine summer’s evening and he hoped Bob would be able to sort himself out, or if it was this Gulf War Syndrome then he hoped the Government would do its duty. He wasn’t optimistic about the official angle, and it was odd how events constantly replayed. He thought of the mustard gas used on the Somme, the shell-shock and executions that were nothing short of murder, the madness of traumatised men brushed under the carpet and left to fester. He pushed this away. The memories had been coming back recently, rising more and more frequently. He thought he’d buried those things deep. He knew the reason of course. There was a decision to make, but it would have to wait for another day. Farrell wanted to enjoy the evening air. It was a strange world and one of the benefits of age was that you became more reflective and less angry. Life was unfair and it was cruel, but your moment passed and there was nothing more you could do.

  Bill Farrell imagined life had been more innocent when he was young, but at the same time tougher, and once the bombing started people began living for the moment. There was little planning. You didn’t know what was going to happen, whether you’d live or die. His time billeted in camps had been dull and repetitive and morale was low early in the war, with Doenitz’s U-boats creating havoc in the Atlantic, the mass bombing, the defeats at Dunkirk and Dieppe. Conditions were basic in the camps and there was some bad feeling towards those in charge and resentment at the pay being so low. There’d been a class-consciousness among the men that didn’t exist today, and the officers had to prove themselves. The Americanisation of English culture over the past thirty years had seen a crass materialism take hold, and this had allowed the establishment to sweeten the population without really giving them anything substantial in return. Farrell had watched this happen and it was the ease with which money had bought England’s soul that he found most depressing.

  The soldiers of the Second World War had learnt from the experience of those in the First. They’d been raised by men who’d served on the Western Front and seen hell on earth. There was a closeness between the two experiences, and Farrell was always amazed at the way the ordinary soldier was portrayed years after the event. In reality, they’d spoken their minds and not suffered fools gladly. The thousands of working-class men slaughtered on the Western Front due to the incompetence of upper-class officers hadn’t been forgotten. Even now he felt the anger of his youth simmering, something that happened when he considered these things. He was disappointed that the gains made by his generation had been squandered by a superficial elite, but knew he had to let go. It didn’t matter when you were old. He’d moved on and kept telling himself he didn’t care until he almost believed it himself. He’d done his bit for England and there was little reward from the state. He’d learnt the hard way. But he hadn’t fought for the politicians and businessmen, and the politicians and businessmen didn’t think about old men living out their years in one-bedroom council flats. He remembered the VE Day celebrations and how the Tories had even wanted to march German troops through Central London. It really was unbelievable.

  Farrell thought of the two pints he’d drunk and smiled. Two pints was a lot these days, and it wasn’t just the price. In the old days he’d liked a drink, and so did his mates. It was his life and his culture and he’d had fun. The Unity always had a piano in those days, and there was one bloke who’d played boogie-woogie along with the more traditional London singalongs. He thought of his brother standing at the bar ordering all those years ago. The White Horse in Hounslow had been his local and they were bitter drinkers, though some of his mates drank mild. Beer was cheap and the pubs were packed. Lager didn’t take over till years later. They’d had a few punch-ups too, though it wasn’t something he ever talked about. It was foolish. They’d never used knives or bottles, just fists. It was good-natured and brief, caused by drink. The cuts and bruises healed and all that was left were vague memories doctored by time.

  Farrell pulled himself up and knew he could remember if he really wanted, if he pushed himself. If he was completely honest with himself, age hadn’t destroyed his memory. At least not yet. He thought about it some more and let his mind go back. It was hard to remember things how they were rather than how you wanted them to appear. This especially applied to the war. There were so many impressions and sights he’d pushed down, applying a gloss finish. It was the only way to survive such a thing. West had to learn this. It was the English way of dealing with things. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it failed. He thought he’d done okay. It was about self-discipline and control.

  When he reached his flat, Farrell brewed a small pot of tea and went to sit by the window. He could see the buildings around him and the light was starting to dim. It was a nice time of day and the weather was fine. He liked hot weather and so had his wife. He looked at her picture on the wall. He saw her with the shaved head and broken ribs, raped and beaten and destined for the Nazi ovens. But he wouldn’t think of that, because he preferred loo
king at the lights coming on outside and the peace of the evening. He’d left their old flat and started fresh. It was a good decision, though he’d been pushed by his daughter and would rather have stayed where he was. After all, the flat had been his home, but it was for the best. You had to leave things behind eventually. He could hear the thump of bass and the tinkle of people laughing. He felt happy with his lot.

  There’d been some real tearaways in the old days, of course. He’d thought this last week when he heard about Johnny Bates dying. He was a hard case, old Johnny, always drunk and fighting with the police. There were unwritten rules and if you hit a copper then the biggest one in the station would pay you a visit in the cells. It was the way they kept order and most people went quietly. You never heard about men getting kicked to death like you did today. He wondered if it happened all those years ago, or whether the difference was that murder was more easily hidden. He couldn’t imagine it happening. Today things were out in the open and that wasn’t bad, it just depended how far it went, but England was a more violent place. There was greater freedom in many ways, but what they gave you with one hand they took back with the other.

  Johnny Bates had lived in the next street to Farrell in Hounslow and they’d been close. Johnny was a few years older and Farrell admired him. He’d got Farrell interested in boxing and it was something the younger man kept up and developed in the army. Johnny’s old man had fought in the Great War and some of the local boys said that the shells had damaged more than just his ears. They said his brain was scrambled by shrapnel, because there was a big scar across his temple and he often sat in his bedroom in the dark for hours on end with the curtains shut. Old man Bates was supposed to have a fancy woman in Chiswick, and this was while his wife was still alive, before the house was bombed out. People talked about Bates’s madness and his mistress as if the two were linked. There was a lot of gossip before they invented television and there was even a story that Bates sat in the dark crying, proof enough that the Kaiser had driven him insane.

  Maybe that’s what made Johnny such a hard bastard. Maybe he heard the talk and decided to put a stop to it. He didn’t want to hear that sort of stuff about his dad, a brave soldier who’d fought for England and deserved better. Johnny loved a fight and Farrell reasoned it was more than the old man bruising his knuckles. Johnny used to tell Bill that he was a champion in waiting, teaching the big mouths some bare-knuckle manners. His nose was flat by the time he was fifteen. The two youths hung around together, but when Johnny joined the army they lost touch. After the war things weren’t the same. Johnny was out every night living the life of Riley, while Farrell would go for a drink sometimes but spent most nights in with his new wife. They still saw each other, and it was Johnny who’d got Farrell to join the TA. Eventually they drifted apart. It was hard for Farrell’s wife when she came to England, with everything that had happened, living in a strange city and dealing with her past. He’d done his best and had always treated her right. They’d had a good marriage. That was one thing he was certain about.

  London was very different after the war. When he looked back he could remember so much, how things were, but this could turn a man inside out and he didn’t want to end up like some ex-soldiers who thought everything today was rubbish and that the rest of the country was in their debt. Everyone wanted respect, and when you’d been through a war you wanted it even more than normal. It became a need. But things didn’t work like that. It was impossible to ever get across the reality, and how could anyone know who wasn’t there? So it was all buried and gaps appeared between people. He’d got along and his wife had helped. They’d never had much money but had made do and enjoyed life. Expectations were lower, and after the war it was enough to be alive. This was the important thing, and they realised how precious life was and this had given them a great sense of fulfilment.

  A pint of beer had been an essential part of life and the pubs were happy places. There was music and laughter after the war ended, a massive sigh of relief. During the war it had been lively, but in a different, more frantic way. Farrell was young and grabbed his chances and it made the camps so boring because you felt you were missing out. Farrell looked at the young girls today and even though there was so much more money about and a lot more choice when it came to fashion, they couldn’t compare with the girls of his day. There’d been some real beauties around. Farrell remembered that one Johnny had liked and somehow Farrell had ended up taking her to the pictures when he was on leave. Her name was Angie. Farrell was going right back now and found he could remember her with a clarity that was almost embarrassing. She really had been a beauty and she’d worn stockings that night as well. The back row was always full of couples because there wasn’t the housing and most kids lived with their mums and dads. You had to get it where you could. It was only natural, after all.

  If someone had gone into business recycling rubbers they could’ve made a fortune just going round the parks. That’s where the young people went for sex. Once the war got going there was much more sex about. At least that was Farrell’s impression, though he was a soldier so maybe it was just him and his mates and their time of life. It made sense, because the population was under threat and nature would take its own action. All he knew for sure was that he was on the job regularly. He’d had lots of sex in those days. He was careful and used a rubber. There was no pill and maybe men had a greater sense of responsibility. He knew that if he got a girl pregnant he’d most likely end up marrying her. You were both in on the thing together. Maybe they’d had greater respect for women, even if there was more chauvinism. It had been a good life in spite of everything. At least until he went to Europe and saw the other side of human nature. He hated the old Second World War films and the way they romanticised everything. They were propaganda really. Still, Gone With The Wind had been a good film to take a girl to see.

  They’d gone for a drink afterwards. Come to think of it, Farrell probably took Angie to The Unity. He was amazed to remember this and wondered what they were doing away from Hounslow, remembering the film was showing in Hammersmith. What did Angie drink? He didn’t have a clue. It was more than fifty years ago, but he could see them leaving the pub. They’d taken the bus and walked the last bit. The night had been much the same as now. The weather was warm and they’d gone to the park. He could feel the texture of Angie’s stockings. It was so long ago, another world. For him at least. Because he was an old man and sex didn’t matter. It did then, of course, and he’d peeled her knickers off and stuffed them in his pocket. He’d had her in the long grass by the hedge. He used a rubber and they’d had a fag afterwards and stayed there for ages talking. He’d seen Angie for a while after and they’d had a lot of sex before going their separate ways.

  Drink and women were what counted when you were a young lad sowing your oats and he’d never thought badly of the girl. You didn’t really consider the future. Now he was thinking about the past, something he normally tried to avoid.

  We get ourselves a table and Billy hangs his Cross of St George over the windows behind. Nice little backdrop that says it all. The flag is England and the white letters Chelsea. His girlfriend cut up a sheet and did it special for the trip. It’s a good-size flag as well, nicked from a five-star hotel in Victoria. Midnight job with a knife. Boot of the car and Billy’s cruising home listening to his radio, tuned into a phone-in about law and order when he spies the old bill coming up behind. Lights flashing and siren screaming. He pulls over wondering about the bald tyres and out-of-date tax disc, the insurance he doesn’t have and the Cross of St George tucked under the spare tyre. They keep going. Through a red light and on to something more exciting. After someone else. Says imagine that, they’ll be putting electronic tags on our flag one day.

  I can believe it as well. See, it’s okay for the Spice Girls to wear Union Jack dresses and for magazines to put it on their covers, and for the knobs who go to the last night of the proms, but if it’s us lot with the Union Jack or Cross
of St George, then we’re automatically Nazis. Imagine that. The fucking mentality of those media cunts. We’re patriotic Englishmen and that’s the truth. Some of the blokes on this ferry might not particularly like blacks and Pakis, but if you’re white and working class then you’re automatically labelled scum by the likes of the Anti-Nazi League. Being patriotic doesn’t mean we follow an Austrian. Our pride is in our history and culture. That’s the way things are and one day the thought police will be tagging the flags and only selling them to pop stars and the upper classes. There’s no politics here, but that doesn’t mean we don’t have views and opinions. Everyone’s a patriot. How can there be anything wrong in loving your country? It doesn’t make any sense at all.

  Mark and Facelift come back from the bar carrying a tray each, balancing drinks, the ferry dipping suddenly so they spill some of the lager. Mark smiles but Facelift’s face stiffens. The ferry evens itself and they’re lining the glasses up on the table. Drop crisps in the middle of the glasses. They’re some of the first ones to get served. I’m looking round the bar and it’s starting to fill up, seeing what’s what. A normal ferry mixture. Coachloads of pensioners off to see the sights, European students and travellers, English versions of the same thing, one or two half-decent birds, and quite a few youths and men who are probably on their way to Berlin. West Ham haven’t turned up yet. Still having their tea. We’re waiting for things to get going because the only way to get through the boredom of crossing to the Hook is to have a decent drink. That’s what it’s all about. A few lagers, a tasty bird or two, and you’re set. The time flies when you’re on the piss with some half-decent sort sitting across the way flashing her gash.