The Drunks – Part Two

A Short Story in Five Parts

The story so far: Alba goes to a tavern every evening in the cold city of St Petri. Having suffered a great deal of trauma in life, she finds some solace in talking to and helping the locals there. She becomes obsessed with the idea of helping one man in particular, who always sits by himself in the corner of the tavern. After various failed attempts to get the man to speak to her, she follows him to his apartment one night and accosts him at his front door. The man speaks for the first time to ask Alba to stop her efforts, and closes the door, leaving her alone in the winter night.

1

Doors opening. Doors closing.

Back.

The door of her apartment: impassive, imposing and cold, through which her son would never return.

Back.

The closed door of the infirmary, separating her from the love of her life.

Back.

The door of her school classroom being opened for the first time, showing half-lit, laughing faces in black pinafores as she was ushered in by a severe teacher in white robes.

And back.

It wasn’t so much a door that featured in Alba’s first memory, but rather an old carpet folded and hanging over a stretch of wire, cleaving her first home in two. The carpet was red, its embroidery worn with age, starched with dust, folded and refolded out of shape. Once, very long ago, it had surely served the purpose for which it had been caringly made. Now it served to partition her family home, giving some semblance of space to a cell of an apartment. In the tiny, one-room flat she had been born into, she learnt the way of the world: there was Ma letting Pa have his way on the days he bothered turning up, and her parents would pull the curtain to block Alba’s prying eyes from their fleshy serenades on the mattress, leaving her to imagine what was going on with the grunts and squeals she could hear as she tried vainly to unknot the hair of her raggedy doll.

Then Pa stopped coming back, and other men: dishevelled men, thin men, sheepish men, bald men, bearded men would visit Ma behind the hanging curtain, and Alba would pluck the hair from the doll as she learnt to recognise returning visitors on the basis of their exclamations behind the carpet.

When she’d been old enough, she began to leave the flat and mosey along the streets while Ma accepted her guests, exploring the alleys, nooks and crannies of the rumbling monster of a city, her hairless doll stuffed into her back pocket. She spent her time pressed to the frosted windows of bakeries, watching mothers with their children in tow, buying impossibly elaborate confections. She saw grand, ornate buildings, where heavily bearded men wearing magnificent suits smoked cigars, raised their voices and banged their fists on tables, then forgot their differences and shook hands amiably. She felt like an outsider, superfluous to the city around her.

And then, she was entirely, utterly alone. Her hairless doll, Bertha, decided to leave her. She must have leapt away from Alba as she was running along a jetty along the river. Plop – Bertha had dived down into the murky depths, leaving Alba alone to navigate this sprawling, strange world as best she could. She folded her arms, no longer having her doll to clutch onto, and vowed to lead a life of solitude, far away from her mother’s ugly, cramped flat with all its cracks, smells and unwanted visitors. She would build her own palace; make her own rules; be her own boss; live the life she knew she deserved. She didn’t need anyone else. No, nuh-uh.

But despite her best efforts to go it alone, her newfound cocksureness made her a symbol and natural ringleader for other dispossessed street urchins, who rushed forward to do her bidding. These were the children who, like Alba, decided to skip school, had been expelled, or had never made it in the first place. School had been a short-lived experiment in Alba’s life, the abiding memory being how often she had been made to stand in the corner with a blue bell around her neck as punishment for the coarse, obscenity-riddled patois she spoke, and her apparent inability to speak the school-prescribed state dialect.

Affectations of speech and obeisance to the motherland were not virtues expected of her street tribe, however, with Alba only demanding one condition from new members:

“You can tag along, I suppose. But don’t think of bringing any boys here,” she would say. Her loyal supporters took her to her word. Boys who laughed at this little girl gang thought sooner about expressing their mirth when their heads were knocked together by Agate and Maisie, Alba’s most trusted enforcers. Alba baulked at this violence, however, shaking her head at the physical measures of her followers. She didn’t hate boys. Lord, she didn’t want them in her little kingdom, but neither did she want them eviscerated from the planet. The more she saw them the feebler and more pathetic they looked, really. They didn’t pose a threat to her little empire, so she graciously allowed their continued, non-threatening existence, like harmless sheep in her enchanted garden. She was happy. Her gang of girls commanded a monopoly of the streets around her home near Arts Square.  She was playing by her rules! She didn’t need anything else.

With no resistance from other gangs, the focus of the group turned to another line of operation – theft. The gang swiped, pilfered and plundered everything they could get their hands on, from pocket watches to embroidered cushions; fresh loaves of bread to finest veal cuts; chopping knives to bottles of cognac. And as the other girls cooed over their spoils in their den behind the carton factory, Alba eyed the plunder uncertainly. Was this her calling in life? Was this what she was destined to do for the rest of her days?

2

“What nice…plates. I can…cook something for you…on those plates!

“Sit down, Ma.”

After distributing the loot amongst the gang, Alba would take her share back to her apartment to her mother, desiccated, frail and apathetic, sunk in her chair and listlessly gazing out of the window. There was no carpet hanging up to partition the room anymore, and no visitors to the apartment. Alba was disgusted but petrified at the sight of this shrivelled husk of a woman, who scratched at the arms of her chair, and could only be placated with alcohol. She mewed meandering nonsense, interrupted by occasional fits of rage, and Alba vowed never to be like this: alone, friendless, rotting into her mouldy furniture.

She was growing up and had long abandoned the desire to be alone against the world. She needed people. She needed to be alive. But her little gang was not enough, and the allure of theft was beginning to dwindle after a couple of brushes with the law. And Alba had to fend for herself now; her mother’s infirmity lay the responsibility of a reliable income squarely on her shoulders. She had gone to a laundry on the other side of the river with the intention of stealing clothes. But instead, she’d been struck by the camaraderie of the all-women workforce: they’d radiated a robust, no-nonsense attitude to their work, wearing black uniforms and white aprons, their hair tied back smartly, dedicated to their task. The purifying chores of cleaning and renewal. These women were atoning for the squalor and stench of human vice. Alba had found a new family. Rather than stealing a single stocking, she landed her first and only job in life.

3

“Where the devil does that silly bastard work?”

When Alba woke up the morning after accosting the sad drunk in front of his apartment, she began plotting how to crack him. She would not be beaten by his stubborn silence. She would squeeze out the truth – wring it out by force if necessary and wallop some sense into him.

“Alba don’t go too hard on them poor trousers, otherwise they’ll be rags by the time that toff comes for them on Tuesday,” called Hilde, with a chuckle.

She was at the laundry. After dispatching her load, she took some tea from the pot in the back and brooded over her options. “How do you get a brick wall with a beard to speak?” she wondered to herself.

She wasn’t going to ask him at the tavern itself again. That would clearly not work. It would make too much of a scene; it would surely provoke the others into derision again. Christ knows how many times she’d asked that man if he’d just bloody speak to her. So not at the tavern! And not in front of his apartment, either. The bastard didn’t take a hint the first time, why should he the next? DON’T SLAM YOUR BLOODY FRONT DOOR ON A WOMAN WHO HAS THE DECENCY TO OFFER YOU HELP.

No, no, no. NO! She was not going to wheedle the information from him. No. She was going to STEAL it from him instead! Hahaha, yes! She would go INTO his apartment….

“Gonnilda?”

A mousy woman with a tendency to absently nibble at any food left lying around the laundry lifted her murine face at Alba’s call.

“Gonnilda, can I ask you something?

Gonnilda smoothed out her apron and nibbled at a melon rind she had been clutching in her paws. Alba took her silence as permission to speak on.

“Now look, Gonnilda. You’re going to think I’m nuts. I don’t know what to do. I go to a tavrern in the evening and have a little drink, and when I’m there I get chatting to people. Like we all do, when we drink. We talk to everyone. Know what I mean?”

Gonnilda seemed too busy noisily sucking the remaining juice from her melon rind to reply.

“I talk to people, and I like to help these people too. And they show gratitude, normally! Most of them. Except one man. One man who just sits there and I can’t make him talk. And when I offer him my help, he looks more and more like some little drowned dog. He just sits there and drinks. Doesn’t speak to anyone else. It’s a real shame. He isn’t even old. You think I’m nuts, don’t you Gonnilda? Why is Alba fussing over some geezer in a pub? That’s what you’re thinking, aren’t you?”

Gonnilda’s eyes were darting frenziedly around the room for more morsels to nibble on.

“Well, I’m not nuts. And I’m not a quitter. You see, I’m going to go to the man’s home tomorrow morning, and I’m going to break into it. Then we’ll see what his problem is, right? You see, he makes me angry. Men like him. Ruining themselves. He needs a talking to. He needs a mothering. I have a son. Did you know that? My son isn’t here anymore. I don’t where he is. And he needed his mother. If I can’t help my son anymore, I can help someone else. Because it’s only when we help each other that we can change things, right? Thanks for listening to all that, Gonnilda. You won’t tell anyone I’m going to break into his home, will you? I was joking, of course.”

Alba drained her tea, bid the laundry a swift farewell, and plunged into the cold afternoon air, her mind setting on a plan of action. She wasn’t joking.  She would break into the man’s apartment and discover whatever it was that was worrying him.

4

Years of travelling. Years of watching. Years of silence. Years of penitence. Years drifting by, waiting. Years of stalling. The drum roll was getting louder, and he was being called onto the stage; a harlequin being shoved into the limelight. The audience, taking the role of judge, jury and executioner, would call for him to account for his actions. He would shuffle onto the stage, and they would wrench his stupid face upwards so that he was forced to look at the hungry eyes of the audience. The orchestra would be playing something sombre, dejected, laden in woe, yet the audience would roar with laughter and stamp their feet.

“You deserve no pity!”

He would try to run away. They would hold him back and tip a bucket of cold water over his head.

“Tell us why!”

He would refuse. He would kick. He would bite at anyone who attempted to restrain him. Then they would beat him, and he would buckle under the blows.

“You deserve no pity! Tell us why!”

5

He hadn’t really noticed the efforts of the woman at first. Then he became more aware of her presence, like a persistent, violent slither of light cutting through drawn curtains.  Her persistent prodding was cracking him. He felt like she was some emissary from the day of judgement, sent to pierce the armour of silence he had carefully constructed around himself. He sensed that a day of reckoning was near. He got up and did what he always did. He swept his floor and enjoyed his coffee in his kitchen. He whittled away at his little wooden figures silently and patiently. He had created the same two figures repeatedly over a number of years. One of them was clearly him: a lean man, all angles and ears and a frown, dressed in a black frock coat. The other was a woman with an open face, deep set eyes and a look of quiet pride, dressed in white.

The latest pair of figures was completed. He did what he always did and left them on a seat of the tram that took him to work, ready and waiting to be picked up and enjoyed by whoever took them.

“Excuse me, you left these, sir.”

“They’re not mine” he said simply.

He went to the bank to make the monthly transfer. Then he went to work and enjoyed the silence of his office.

And then, as darkness dropped like a floating veil over the city, he would feel the familiar loneliness pinching him. The self-inflicted loss that was rotting him slowly. The familiar revelation of his errors. He went to the tavern near him with its ragged coterie of down-and-outs to silence the piercing menace in his heart. The warm din where he could curl up and smother himself in anonymity. But he couldn’t continue if the woman was going to be there again this evening. Would she ever leave him alone?

6

He drank. He stared. He felt clenched up. He would have to leave soon. She would continue to pester him, and he would never be able to rest. But if he went to a new tavern, would she follow him? Where was she now, anyway? Had she been here this evening?

He made a start. There she was – this devilish, unremitting woman. There was a piece of paper next to him. Scrawled on it, in barely intelligible letters, was a question. “You don’t want to talk. You want to write to me about it instead?” She was offering him a pencil. He shook his head vehemently. She thrust the pencil in front of his eyes. He snatched it from her, his eyes not leaving hers, and wrote three curt words.

“No, thank you.”

The apparition looked down rather dejectedly at the answer as she gently took the pencil from his hand. Then she left him to his silence.

7

A vodka-soaked yank back onto her bed. She thought of a trampoline set up in the market square which she’d bounced on during a rare outing with her mother. The vertiginous, infinite, azure sky ahead. Now a ceiling in her bedroom, swirling, the plaster cornices cumulous forms. The view above – placid, unremarkable, soothing, unattainable. She crooked her neck, and felt bile building up inside her as she stared down at her feet, still in their shoes. She was sweating profusely. The door creaked open, and a little face peered around.

“Not now, Artus.”

The little face disappeared slowly and sadly. Alba let her head drop back onto the pillow, and let the ceiling engulf her in its plain banality.

8

Alba glowed with triumph as she savoured her wine. She was making headway. She was making herself useful. In this spirit of benevolence, she beckoned over to Flossy to join her at the bar. Flossy, a dowdy woman with frizzy hair and slapdash makeup had such a myriad of problems it was hard to keep up.

“….and then, of course, as you know, she won’t pay me back what I gave her.”

Alba didn’t know. Flossy was the kind of person who forgot which person she had divulged news to at any given time. Perhaps, if everyone who talked to her came together, they’d be able to piece the fragmented information into something coherent. But Flossy seemed content just to be able to speak, not to be given advice.

“…and, as you know, she had the GALL to try and tell ME I stole those radishes. Like I bloody would. What the hell does she think I need radishes for? Oh, but I told you about her…”

Alba smiled encouragingly at Flossy, as she thought back on the last few days. Did the man know what she’d been up to?

She looked over at his table in the corner. There was a change. He was looking over at her now, and he didn’t have that old look of sadness anymore. His eyes were flashing with anger. Yes! Alba felt a surge of excitement as she looked into those eyes. He was livid.

“Come and join me and Flossy, here. Come on over!” called Alba, as she waved over to the man jovially.

The man shook his head and snarled some unintelligible words of refusal. Alba grinned. She knew how to stoke the fire further.

“I hear you’re good with your hands,” she yelled. “I hear you have a secret talent! All those chisels and tools. You should come and do some work on those broken chairs in the corner. What do you reckon, Aditsan? How about getting our man in the corner there to help you out with the furniture here? Hey, anyone here need help? OUR FRIEND IS JUST THE MAN! HE CAN’T FIX HIMSELF, BUT HE’LL FIX YOUR CHAIRS!”

Everyone at the bar was looking at her. A couple of people laughed a little nervously, bemused by her animated display. Flossy looked scandalised for being interrupted.

“Oh God, Alba, just leave that fellow alone,” murmured Aditsan, cupping a hand over his long-suffering eyes.

The man in the corner was shaking with fury, clearly restraining himself from getting up and going over to give Alba a piece of his mind. She cackled. She didn’t care what anyone else thought. She only cared about what HE thought. Surely, he realised now that she would never stop. And she’d only just started.