The microphone crackled. The piano surrounded by a thick haze of blue smoke.
I’d like to dedicate this song to love, said Pete. I wrote it when I was in Yugoslavia.
When was Pete in Yugoslavia? said Ulysses, leaning in to Peg.
It’s about regret, said Pete. It’s called ‘If I’d Known What I Know Now’。
Hindsight, whispered Cress.
What? said Col, twitching.
Hindsight, said Cress. If I’d known then what I know now. That’s hindsight.
Shut the fuck up, said Col and Pete began to sing.
In the most unexpected way, a tincture of forgiveness bled across the dark night and entered the pub. From dusty corners looking out, ghosts of missed opportunities, and held grudges and words unspoken were laid to rest. Spines straightened, joints eased, and hearts became light. Old Cress went somewhere deep inside himself, somewhere private, somewhere lush. Ulysses looked across the counter to Peg and she turned to look at him, and their eyes locked in a serendipitous embrace, slow in motion. Col had a glimpse of life on the open road and his stomach settled. Suddenly, Peg glanced towards the door and there was Ted. Mr Insurance, Mr Risk Averse, who may or may not have a wife.
Peg and Ted dancing now. Claude on Ulysses’ shoulder, nuzzling his ear. Cress at the counter spinning the globe like a roulette wheel. The front door opening as if caught by the wind. Tubby Folgate standing in the doorway like a Rorschach inkblot, lighting a cheroot, taking in the scene, swaying to Pete’s mellow tune.
The song came to an end and how could it not have been a standing ovation? Pete had given his all. Peg was cheering, Ted modestly clapping, Col whistling, but then, like the sudden tumble of dominoes, awareness shifted to Tubby and the applause subsided, and Tubby said, Don’t mind me, don’t mind me. But they did mind him, and the room fell to silence.
Beautiful, said Tubby. His glottal stop sharp as a blade. Tubby limped across the floor. Lot of villain in that walk. The thick reinforced boot on his left foot was custom-made by a cousin – the cobbler strand of the family going back generations, and a rather pleasant lot in comparison. Tubby stood in front of Col’s table and slipped effortlessly into Col’s pain, his very presence a liberal salting. He blew out smoke and regarded Col with his good eye, the one the loading hook hadn’t taken all those years before.
I heard you got a bit of troubling, Mr Formiloe? he said. You need to talk, my man?
Not to you, you cunt.
Col, Peg and Tubby looked over to the counter. Never had there been a more unfortunate moment for a parrot to regain his voice.
Autumn brought the return of short days, early nights and endless coal fires chugging up the air. Ginny was sent away to Col’s sister in Bristol to have the baby and the pub wasn’t the same without her. Alys stayed over with Ulysses as Peg settled in on Ted. Every week, Tubby came by for a quiet word with Col. What you doing mixing with him? said Peg. He’ll be plotting something, said Ulysses. This won’t end well, said Cress.
But Col didn’t listen. Col quietly on the look-out for Davy.
And then it came to pass.
A Friday. The beginning of December. Meteorologically speaking, a bit queer. There was no wind, and a layer of cold air had been trapped under a layer of warm air, and as the day progressed, a thick veil of yellow-brown fog descended and wouldn’t budge. By the evening London stank of rotten eggs and the city had come to a standstill and the streets were empty.
There was no traffic on the Thames and Peg reported that conductors were walking in front of buses holding torches. Only three oldies made it into the pub, and they were wheezing from the short walk, their faces blackened like coal miners. By eight they’d left, and the place was like the Mary Celeste.
Cressy and Ulysses stood outside the pub. The pavements were greasy underfoot, and Cress said, Can you see me now?
Still see you, said Ulysses.
What about now?
Just about.
Now?
Nuh.
Two yards, said Cress, walking back into sight. A remarkable phenomenon, he said.
A beam of headlights rounded the corner. Cress and Ulysses watched the dark shape of the car drive past and out of view. The car stopped in the murk. The sound of an engine ticking over. A door opening and closing. Another door. Two sets of footsteps and low chat. A distinguishable limp. Another door opening and closing and what sounded like a bag of spuds falling to the ground.
Ulysses whispered, Get going, Cress. I’ll find you if I need you.
Not leaving you, son.
You have to. Go on.
Cress turned; in three steps he was a ghost.
Ulysses lay on the bed with the radio on. Big band music down low and a small Scotch in his hand. The electric heater chugging out warmth and the faint murmur of voices downstairs. When Col had seen Tubby at the door, he’d told Ulysses to call it a night, so he had. He turned off the radio and went to the door. Ears alive and a heart pumping wild to the shenanigans below.