passed around, liberally shaken over their meals. They slowly begin to eat, struggling to cut the meat and to chew, some of them struggling with their knives, holding them incorrectly, others moving the food around on their plates with their forks, before they even start. Suddenly, the lady who wanted her steak well-done shouts out to the barmaid.
‘Excuse me! Excuse me!’
The barmaid dashes over immediately, smiling, although it’s obvious she’s been expecting something like this to happen, as if it’s happened on numerous occasions.
‘Yes, my love.’
‘This steak is well-done, I can’t cut through it, it’s too tough, and I can’t chew it.’
‘You asked for it well-done …’
‘But I wanted it tender as well …’
‘Have it rare next time, then it’ll be as tender as you like …’
‘I don’t want my steak like the bloomin’ French have it.’
‘A well-done steak, a really well-done one, like you asked, won’t be tender. You say this to me every time you come in here …’
‘Yes, because you always cook my steak too tough …’
‘And you always ask for it well-done … Every time, and you always come back at me with the same complaint … I’ve told you about this so many times …’
‘It’s too tough …’
‘Okay, do you want your money back?’
‘No, I want some food I can chew …’
‘You say this every time … Every time you come in here.’
‘Okay, I’ll eat it. It’s too tough, but I’ll eat it.’
such a long time
After the old ladies have gone and I’ve finished my wine I grab my rucksack and walk up to the bar.
‘Same again?’
‘No, thanks … May I speak to Mr Buchanan, please?’
‘He’s over there …’
‘Where?’
‘There, talking to that man …’
‘Oh yes, I see him. Thanks.’
Mr Buchanan is speaking to the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt. The woman is with them too, but she’s drifted off and is staring out of the window as they talk. Mr Buchanan’s a large man, with a thick beard and small-rimmed, round glasses. I walk over to them. The man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt stops their conversation as if some dignitary had just arrived.
‘Ah, come and join us. Although I must warn you, we’re as boring as two old fuck-ups can be …’
‘I’m sorry, I’m looking for Mr Buchanan …’
‘I know who you are …’
‘Really?’
‘You’re Rey Michaels’ lad …’
‘I’m his nephew, yes …’
‘Well, of course …’
‘Yes, well …’
‘Excuse me …’
He takes me to the other side of the bar and through a door into the back office. We sit down at his desk. He offers me a whisky, good Scottish stuff, cool as you like. I want to tell him that his actions are just like actions in films I’ve seen – the way he slouches in his chair and pulls the bottle of whisky from a drawer underneath his desk – but I don’t, instead I nod and watch him pour my drink. He hands it to me and I slouch back in my own chair just like him. The whisky burns the back of my throat, it starts a beautiful fire inside me.
‘It was sad … What Rey did … I liked him. He was a private man, kept himself to himself … You know, not that many people came to visit. I knew nothing about him, really, only the things he wanted me to know … I liked that about him, I even admired him for it. There’s so much space in this world, yet most of us feel restricted, like there’s no scope for another perspective, trapped in the moment, one to the next … With Rey, it didn’t seem like that, not to me, it seemed like he had all the space he wanted … then, you know, all this … He was a good man, I think, underneath it all …’
‘I never really … We didn’t see much of him, I guess …’
‘Whatever his problems, you know … Whatever was going on inside his head, in his life for him to do that, you know …’
‘I know … It’s hard to imagine …’
‘He would come here … He’d sit in the corner, reading a book, something about the stars and the planets, he was into all that … Sometimes he’d talk into his phone, but not like a conversation with someone, just into his phone, like he was recording his own voice … He had all the new gadgets … I don’t know what he was saying, he’d just speak into it, you know, discreetly. Some people thought it was odd behaviour, but I didn’t. I liked it, it kept people in here on their toes, they thought he was talking about them, keeping an eye on them or something, but he wasn’t … but what were they to know, eh? If he wasn’t doing that, he would sit there reading his books, he was always doing that, obsessed with the stars, he was. He has a huge telescope at his caravan they say, did you ever see it?’
‘I can’t remember ever having … maybe this is a new thing … I haven’t seen him in such a long time.’
‘…’
‘…’
‘Here … These are the keys … I own the site he lived on, so I have spares.’
‘Oh, thanks …’
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘I’ll find it.’
‘Number 27 … The address is on the key ring. It’s not far … Give me a call if you have any problems.’
‘Okay, thanks.’
‘Right, I’ll get back to that lot outside.’
‘Yes.’
I walk back into the bar after Mr Buchanan, leaving him to serve the man in the Dr Feelgood T-shirt another drink. Before I leave I buy four bottles of strong cider. I figure I’ll need more to drink once I’m inside Uncle Rey’s caravan. The barmaid looks at me pitifully as I hand her the money. I shake my head when she offers me the change. I thank her and walk to the door; just as I step out into the cold air, the smell of iodine and salt in my face, I hear Mr Buchanan wish me luck from behind the bar. I turn round to thank him, but
