I expected to pour the drink from the bottle into the glass?’ I said, puzzled. ‘Isn’t it your job to do that?’ He stared at me and then slowly poured the brown liquid over the ice and put it down quite hard; indeed, he practically slammed the bottle onto the counter.
‘Eight pound seventy,’ he said, in a most unfriendly manner. I handed over a five-pound note and four pound coins, then took my change and carefully put it in my purse.
‘Would you by any chance have a tray?’ I asked. He tossed down a filthy, sticky tray and watched as I placed the drinks on it before turning his back on me. There is such a paucity of good manners on display in the so-called service sector!
Raymond thanked me for the drink and took a big gulp. The Magners was quite pleasant, and I revised my opinion of the young barman. Yes, his customer service skills were poor, but he did at least know how to make appropriate beverage recommendations. Unprompted, Raymond started to tell me about his mother, how he was going to visit her tomorrow, something he did every Sunday. She was a widow and not terribly well. She had a lot of cats, and he helped her care for them. On and on and on he droned. I interrupted him.
‘Raymond,’ I said. ‘Can I ask you something?’
He sipped his pint. ‘Sure.’
‘If I were to purchase a “smart phone”, which type would you advise? I have been looking into the relative merits of iPhones as compared with Android devices, and I’d appreciate an insider’s perspective on the cost–benefit ratio, as it were.’
He looked somewhat surprised at my question, which was odd, given that he worked in IT and therefore must be asked technological questions quite frequently.
‘Right, well …’ he shook his head in a slightly canine way, as though he were clearing thoughts from it ‘… that depends on a lot of factors.’ He expounded on these factors at some length – without reaching any kind of useful conclusion – and then looked at his watch.
‘Shit! I better run – I need to pick up some beers before I head over to Andy’s, and it’s nearly ten.’ He drained his pint, stood up and put on his jacket, even though it wasn’t in the least bit cold.
‘You going to be OK getting home, Eleanor?’ he said.
‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘I’ll walk – it’s such a beautiful evening, and it’s still light.’
‘Right then, I’ll see you on Monday,’ he said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your weekend.’ He turned to leave.
‘Raymond, wait!’ I said. He turned back towards me, smiling.
‘What is it, Eleanor?’
‘The Guinness, Raymond. It was three pounds fifty.’ He stared at me. ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘there’s no rush. You can give it to me on Monday, if that’s easier.’
He counted out four pound coins and put them on the table. ‘Keep the change,’ he said, and walked off. Extravagant! I put the money in my purse, and finished my Magners. Emboldened by the apples, I decided to take a detour on the way home. Yes. Why not? It was time for a spot of reconnaissance.
THERE IS NO SUCH thing as Hell, of course, but if there was, then the soundtrack to the screaming, the pitchfork action and the infernal wailing of damned souls would be a looped medley of ‘show tunes’ drawn from the annals of musical theatre. The complete oeuvre of Lloyd Webber and Rice would be performed, without breaks, on a stage inside the fiery pit, and an audience of sinners would be forced to watch – and listen – for eternity. The very worst amongst them, the child molesters and the murderous dictators, would have to perform them.
Save for the exquisite oeuvre of a certain Mr Lomond, I have yet to find a genre of music I enjoy; it’s basically audible physics, waves and energized particles, and, like most sane people, I have no interest in physics. It therefore struck me as bizarre that I was humming a tune from Oliver! I mentally added the exclamation mark, which, for the first time ever, was appropriate. Who will buy this wonderful evening? Who indeed?
One of the foster carers kept a video library of musicals that we worked our way through en famille at weekends, and so, although I fervently wish that I wasn’t, I’m very familiar with the work of Lionel Bart, Rodgers and Hammerstein et al. Knowing I was here on the street where he lived was giving me a funny feeling, fluttery and edgy, verging on euphoric. I could almost understand why that frock-coated buffoon from My Fair Lady had felt the need to bellow about it outside Audrey Hepburn’s window.
Finding out where the musician lived had been easy. He had posted a picture of a lovely sunset on Twitter:
@johnnieLrocks
The view from my window: how lucky am I?
#summerinthecity #blessed
It showed rooftops, trees and sky, but there was also a pub in the corner of the photograph, right at the end of the street, its name clearly visible. I found it in seconds, thanks to Google.
The street, like most in this part of the city, was made up of tenements. They all had a secure main front door with named buzzers on the outside wall, one for each flat inside the building. This was the right street. Which side should I start with? Even numbers, I decided. He was an even sort of man, not an odd one. I had a puzzle to solve. I hummed as I worked, and couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like this – light, sparkly, quick. I suspected that it might be what happiness felt like.
It was fascinating to see all the different names on the buzzers, and the manner in which they were displayed. Some were scribbled in biro on a sticker and placed carelessly over the button. Others had typed their names in bold upper case, printed it out and affixed it with three layers of Sellotape. A few had left their buzzer blank, or failed to replace their name when the elements had made the ink run, rendering it illegible. I really hoped he wasn’t one of those, but I kept a list of their locations in my notebook, just in case. If I had eliminated all the legible names without coming across his, I’d have to go back and work my way through the list of blank ones.
Ah, but how could I have doubted him? Halfway down the street, the most even of even numbers, there he was: Mr J. Lomond Esq. I stood before the buzzer, examining the letters. They were written neatly but artistically in classic black ink on thick white paper. It was so him.
It seemed unlikely that he, a popular, handsome man with the world at his feet, would be at home on a Saturday night, so, just to see how it felt, I gently touched his buzzer with the tip of my index finger. There was a crackle, and then a man’s voice spoke. I was somewhat taken aback, to say the least.
‘Hello?’ he said again.
A deep voice, well spoken, measured. Honey and smoke, velvet and silver. I quickly scanned the list and selected another resident’s name at random.
‘Pizza delivery for … McFadden?’ I said. I heard him sigh.
‘They’re on the top floor,’ he said, and hung up. The door buzzed and clicked open. Without stopping to think too much about it, I went inside.
The musician was upstairs on
