A Drifter's Legacy

Peter O'Toole in "MY FAVOURITE YEAR"

An Anthem for Mary

Long before the 'care in the community' concept, I delivered bulk tea to mental homes all over the south of England. These imposing structures were invariably located off the beaten track in immaculately tended grounds. Sometimes, as outwardly cheerful patients helped me unload the plywood chests, I found myself comparing their quality of life with that of a single parent long distance lorry driver struggling to keep the day job. On one occasion, when night-stopping in the area, I was invited to a New Years dance but declined because it was nearly April. When I did get to experience life on the inside, I was no longer curious about the inhabitants, the ambience or the architecture. In fact I didn't care much about anything.

Having undergone my second detox and stayed dry for the longest month of my life, I was accepted for a place on a month-long rehabilitation programme at the alcohol addiction unit. Two days early and bored, I tried to motivate my vallium-numbed brain to show interest in fellow group members as they trickled apprehensively into the lounge.

Bartholomew arrived in the early evening on his mother's jewellery-clad arm, carrying a half-open Gladstone bag with a purple dressing gown sash trailing on the floor. Vaguely curious, I raised my head from the William Blake biography I wasn't reading, deafened by the clattering of heavy shoes on the polished wood floor. God, those shoes! I swear the soles were inch thick - heirlooms, I speculated, regularly re-soled by successive generations. My gaze wandered upwards from scuffed grey corduroys to leather-patched tweed jacket, to soiled violent red mohair waistcoat, to yellow drink-stained silk cravat. But his face was more little-boy-lost than debonair playboy, pasty white from the small pointed chin to the unkempt quiff of streaky fair hair. I thought of my late teenage years and an opinionated teacher who would reprimand me with "The brain of a child in the body of a man - the perfect fool!" That this Beau Brummell look-alike would be a member of our group was a sobering thought, especially since he reminded me so much of a former patronising employer, tied accommodation, a losing battle against feudal injustice… and a broken marriage.

Our meetings were held in the Brocklethwaite Manor drawing room, a chamber that could accommodate two bedsits stacked one on top of the other. Still thinking about my half bottle hidden in the rhododendron bush, I positioned myself between the Adam fireplace and the fire exit. By means of a cushion-throwing game, we discovered, then instantly forgot, each other's names, listened to a lecture, watched a drama-documentary video in Welsh with subtitles, then sat amidst the embarrassing silence of our first group meeting.

At twenty-five, Mary was our youngest member and she it was who disturbed our nervous lethargy with the horrendous tale of her desperate, addictive life. Such a confession, commonplace at AA meetings, seemed particularly poignant when told by one so young and attractive. As the baby of seven girls she had been the favoured one, but now she carried on her fragile shoulders the guilt of having been on a week-long bender while her mother had died of cancer, calling her name. How the hell, she asked, could she learn to live with that?

Individual horror stories were dredged up as in a game of brag, until Bartholomew reneged, folding his hand without showing. "I'm sorry," he said, "but I just don't have the same problems as most of you. I came here under protest to learn how to control my drinking, that's all." His brogues were parked beneath his chair and his red socks clashed horribly with the plush orange carpet.

"Control it?" asked Mary incredulously. "You're something else, you know that? Your mother's probably mortgaging her mansion to pay for your bloody treatment and all you want to do is sulk!"

"How dare you! Do you really imagine I could ever sink as low as you?"

Mary looked at the ceiling. "God, this is all we need - an alcoholic who thinks he's different." Although the pupils were dilated from recent drug treatment, Mary's eyes were wild and accusing. "The only way you're different Bart is that you've never had to share anything in your life! Trust me, there's no soft option here. Tell him Allan!" She turned on our resident mentor who shrugged but said nothing, an attitude he was to maintain throughout.

Inspired by our historic and grandiose environment, when the others had gone to lunch I dallied a while for a closer look at the décor, including Bartholomew's forsaken shoes with their clog-like upturned toes. By my side stood the pole used to open and close the high sash windows, while above the fireplace an inviting ornate picture hook supported an impressive engraving by Blake with descriptive text.

The afternoon started with another lecture, followed by role-play made more interesting by the hostility between Mary and Bart. Later, in a relaxation class, we were invited to lie with our backs on the floor and imagine we were looking down upon ourselves sitting by a cool stream on a sunny day.

As the session came to a close, giggles became uncontrolled laughter as all eyes focused on Bart's shoes, laced together and hanging over my hand-printed card which read "And did those feet in ancient time, Walk upon England's mountains green?"

The course, in and out of the classroom, was emotionally tiring. Bart had to be badgered into assisting with the washing up and would rather go without than help prepare a light early evening snack for the group. Mary gave up complaining about his disruptive influence and tried to convince him that alcoholics can't control their intake. Her youthful enthusiasm persuaded me to drastically rethink my future and I began to get my confidence back. On the last day it was she who compiled a list of members' contact details, which she copied and handed round as we said our mainly tearful goodbyes.

Initially, because of our vulnerability, many of us stayed in constant touch by phone, but when Mary's money problems led to her line being disconnected, she would write to me almost daily, thoughtful, almost poetic letters to which I would promptly respond. Six months on, her letters became less frequent before drying up altogether. When she phoned me from her sister's flat just before Christmas, I feared the worst.

"I'd ditched that lazy bastard I lived with, redecorated the flat, sorted out my money troubles, then who do you think shows up?"

"Mary, you sound…"

"Pissed? Bladdered? Well say it for God's sake - it's what you're thinking."

"I… I'm sorry, Mary, really I am."

"Just goes to show, doesn't it? Me, little miss know it all with answers to everyone's problems… but my own."

"Tell me somebody who hasn't had a slip, Mary. We're all just one drink away from being back on the treadmill. Can you get someone round? Have you phoned Doug? Maybe he could take you to a meeting tonight."

"No, I'm too far gone for that, I need a detox - like now, today! I asked to get back into Brockatate… Brocklith… you know where I mean. Guess what they said? I can detox at home! At home! What bloody planet are they on, eh? Vallium delivered to your door. Fine, I've got some vodka left to wash it down. They're pathetic!"

She became maudlin and incoherent after that and I could hear her sister saying all the wrong things to her before slamming the phone down. I thought of visiting her but, to my shame, didn't feel mentally strong enough to handle it.

Mary's body was found in her flat in mid-January. At the inquest, because of elapsed time, the coroner was unable to establish a definite cause of death. Police described the traditional debris of medication, empty bottles and cans. Her sisters testified that experience had taught them to give their feisty sibling a wide berth when she was 'back on the sauce.' Since Brocklethwaite, and especially after she got rid of her boyfriend, Mary had been coping well, attending regular AA meetings and training for a career away from the bar trade.

I knew how she'd died, low self-esteem, depression… we'd all been there. That and the uphill struggle just to get back to square one. And the guilt, of course, especially the guilt. Yet her will to make a success of it, that infectious optimism that had inspired us all, convinced me that she didn't make the decision to start drinking again all by herself.

Confirmation came when Mary's next door neighbour took the stand. "Sometimes we didn't see each other for weeks. You see I couldn't stand her layabout partner, but we got friendly again once she got rid of him. One night I came home late and saw a pair of men's shoes lying by her door. Thick brogues they were, as if they'd been left there for somebody to clean. You know, like they used to do in hotels? I thought it funny at the time but I took it as a hint and kept my distance."

In my anger I thought of Blake's poem set to music by Charles Parry, the patriotic anthem with lyrics that no one at Brocklethwaite could explain to me.
Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire;
Bring me my Spear; O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

By the time the train reached Guildford I felt calm enough to phone Bart for directions. His mother answered in a familiar controlled voice, the voice of one used to being in charge. "I'm afraid you're too late," she said. Did I detect a trace of distaste? "dear Bartholomew passed away two weeks ago..."

After a while I stopped hating Bart. We had, after all, agreed we could call on one another for support. Mary wouldn't have wanted his shoes in her flat and with hindsight I doubt any one of us in Mary's position would have been strong enough to insist he left the vodka outside too.

Jerusalem still haunts much of my waking moments and when life deals me a bad hand a glass of old malt whisky can still appear at the top of my wish list. I've read up a little on William Blake, but it seems I lack the perception of even the British National Party who made the piece their official anthem. Watching Last Night of the Proms, I see hundreds of Bartholomews in Union Jack hats mouthing the words in front of a highly motivated conductor. Are they better informed? "And was Jerusalem builded here among those dark satanic mills." I don't know and I don't care any more.

Uplifted by the stirring music, I close my eyes and think of Mary's infectious, carefree laughter, a scarce commodity at Brocklethwaite, on that isolated occasion, the moment she realised what was hanging above Blake's immortal words.

That's meaning enough for me.

(c) Eddie Bruce 2006

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My Brother's Keeper

I'm seated on a worn out armchair. Across from me Rab McGee sits on his bed shouting abuse. With his long, thinning hair and staring eyes he looks insane. "What are you looking at you bastard?"

I shake my head sadly, aware that his glazed eyes are staring beyond me at a scene that exists only in his own head. I let him rant on. "You want a fight do you? C'mon then. I can handle bastards like you!"

Like me, Rab is an alcoholic. I've known him since we were kids at the orphanage school. Every five years or so I track him down and we go out and get pissed. But not this time; I've been dry for six months. My mate respects that.

He's wearing my suit, the one he borrowed years ago. It badly needs cleaning; so does the bedsit, and Rab needs a detox, desperately. I feel guilty and helpless because I know what he's going through.

I've been here all day. I know there’s four cans of Special Brew and a half bottle of Bells in the cupboard but he's only had two cans since I arrived - when I went out for the fish suppers. I doubt he's been this sober in weeks, months even. Yet his speech is constantly slurred; it's called wet brain.

When he's not hallucinating he keeps looking at me and saying "Christ, this is unbelievable!" Then "Hey! D'you remember when we..." and goes on to recall an incident from the past that has gained in notoriety. In Rab’s memory even the bad times were good.

I suggest the Sally Army Detoxification Unit, but his eyes dart in the direction of the booze cupboard. Maybe I don’t sound too convincing because I’m still fighting off the desire to drink and I’m missing the buzz. I tell him I don’t miss the hangovers and I feel fit again.

His gesture says "Been there. Done that." Slouching towards the cupboard, he holds the chair-back for support. I close my eyes and think of better days.

Aberlour Orphanage had its own farm, gardens and school; even its own church. They placed Rab in a special B class, which stigmatised him from the day he was admitted. Later he worked in the gardens and lodged with my parents who were employed at the home. We were both members of the pipe band and Rab was proud of his late father who had been a drum major. His mother visited often. She called him Bobbie.

I started drinking because of my father’s attitude. His staunchly religious convictions were tested when I was employed as a clerk at a local distillery. Because my job entailed logging the contents of casks in the filling store, the odour of freshly made whisky pervaded my clothes, so I was subjected to nightly lectures on temperance. At sixteen, having decided to justify my father's distrust, I became a regular in the workers' daily queue for a dram. The spirit, at 120 proof, left me breathless, but I was soon savouring the feeling of well-being it engendered, if not the flavour. Eventually I was receiving a regular supply of twelve-year-old malt from both the Customs & Excise Officer and the manager, to give to my father - which seldom reached our house.

My first experience of class distinction was the villagers' dislike of anyone from the orphanage. So, having persuaded Rab to follow my lead, each Saturday would see us heading for Elgin, fifteen miles away, where we could have a good time without feeling ostracised. At seventeen we were competent drinkers and big enough to get into pubs and play darts for a beer. Sure we threw up occasionally on the bus journey home, but the downside was nothing compared to the highs.

Rab outgrew his gardening job and was sent to work in the coalmines of Fife where I joined him eventually and we shared lodgings and our first significant experiences of girls.

Maybe because I became bored with my job or far too fond of my girlfriend Nancy, or perhaps I drank too much one night and made a hasty decision - probably the latter - I ran off to Glasgow alone and back into the whisky trade. Soon afterwards, Rab recovered from a binge to find he had joined the army. They posted him to Cyprus and I would send him bottles of Scotch buried in loaves of bread. He told me he boxed for his regiment at light-heavyweight until they realised what he was drinking between rounds. The army decided they couldn't handle the island's troubles and Rab as well. They gave him a dishonourable discharge and flew him to London.

For a while we worked in the Mars factory, sharing a flat in Slough. Then we went to Jersey and got carried away with the cheap drink and relaxed licensing laws. I know we had some very enjoyable weekends there, because my friend still recalls them in exaggerated detail.

When you’re an alcoholic you become convinced that there’s something weird about non-drinkers. Rab had long since reached the stage where booze dominated his life whereas I still needed something more. My marriage in Jersey lasted a year during which time Rab had once again been led astray and was deported from the island.

My mate is sweating now and trembling. For the first time I become aware of how skinny he has become; how his cheekbones protrude. He gulps down about a gill of Bells and pushes the bottle towards me, absently. Blue scars stand out on his pale skin, a testimony to countless drunken brawls, some fresh since our last meeting. But his complexion is visibly changing for the better and a smile is forming, reminding me of my own silly expression in photos from bygone years and how much of Rab’s wasted life is down to me.

There’s a mouth organ on the bedside table. It’s a well-worn Hohner with a key-change button. I wipe the mouthpiece on my jeans and whack it a few times on my palm. Then I play the theme from Shane and his eyes light up as he leans forward to grab the dirty knife and fork. Our eyes meet, smiling, as I launch into Scotland the Brave, Highland Laddie and Black Bear; Rab keeping time with the cutlery on the soiled plate and the empty beer cans. When I run out of puff and pipe tunes, he sits up proudly and I’m reminded of how he looked in uniform, marching with the big drum, twirling the sticks recklessly.

In the years that followed I married again but continued to move from place to place. An alcoholic can convince himself that all he needs is a break, when everyone else knows that he can’t afford to feed both his family and his habit.

Once, as a long-distance lorry driver, I night-stopped in Slough. Rab was hard to track down as he had changed his name following a tragic street fight while living rough in London. He was working as a dustman and had moved in with a widow who lived next to a pub. I was happy for him and we celebrated in the time-honoured fashion. But I was finding hangovers harder to deal with.

Next time I had guilt feelings about my mate I was a single parent living in London with my son, earning a living driving busses. It was in the summer and I cycled to Slough and checked out the British Legion Club. He now shared a council flat with a work mate who told me he sometimes preferred to wander off and sleep rough for a few nights at a time. Although we drank heavily until the early hours, this time we were both just going through the motions. The spark was no longer there; the alcohol was no longer working for us, and my kidneys ached.

Soon afterwards I was admitted to the Salvation Army Detoxification Unit at their hostel in Whitechapel Road, following a weekend of solo drinking. Thanks to the credit card companies I was able to go out in style, drinking twelve-year-old Macallan.

After my second visit I volunteered for a residential rehabilitation course. I knew then that my next drink would be my last.

We both stand up and embrace for a long time. I feel his skeletal body shake and I know he’s crying too. Because I’m sober, I’m aware of his body odour and the pungent smell of the alcohol. I feel like a traitor; a man who’s joined another culture and religion.

When he sits down again I find an envelope and scribble my address and phone number on it. He’s wearing that hurt expression that I remember so well. I shake his hand one last time.

“I can’t help you on this one Rab – it’s got to be your decision.”

And I can’t give him what he needs most – something to live for.

Copyright Eddie Bruce 2003. All rights reserved.

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The following story was inspired by two incompatible characters I knew in Jersey in the sixties and the ironic consequences of their relationship.

GRUDGE

The public bar was down a lane off the Esplanade in St. Helier, between the Jubilee Hotel and The Customs. Its centrepiece was a jukebox blaring out The Shirelles' "Will You Love Me Tomorrow" and Ricky Nelson's "Hello Marylou" - over and over. Every Friday and Saturday night it was surrounded by a dozen or more sun-tanned male seasonal workers planning their weekend.

Dai Edwards, the best brickie's labourer on the island, looked almost apologetic as he introduced the stranger. "Me and Tommy…grew up in the same village, we did - right mad little bastards we were… Right, Tom?"

His friend forced a smile, but the steely grey eyes above his broken nose were mirthless.

"It's Tommy's first time away from home like, so be gentle, eh? He can handle himself, mind - used to box amateur back in Merthyr, didn't he?"

Danny from Dublin, who became a mechanic just by borrowing some tools, broke the long silence. "We don't do fightin' here Tom. Too busy living the dream, if you know what I mean." He grinned at Dai. "So you can throw away the porn magazines now. OK, so you might still find yourself chatting up Megan from the Rhonda, but trust me, if she's over here she's up for it. If you can't pull in Jersey, old pal, you never will." He leaned over and pushed Dai's shoulder. "Just ask your buddy here. Can't get enough of it, can you mate?" On his fourth large Jamesons Danny had peaked and he could maintain that state of euphoria all night on Guinness.

The newcomer's reaction seemed to be a mixture of bewilderment and resentment, with each drink retreating further and further into himself, as if unable to relate to his new environment or rendered impotent by inferior social skills.

After a few weeks the two South Africans started to chide Tommy for refusing to play beach football on Sunday mornings and Ausie John didn't help things by offering to coach him in the art of seduction. Bricklayer, peacemaker and keen psychoanalyst Jock Shaw blamed a religious upbringing and tried to humour him, while his fellow-countryman Dai tellingly devoted more and more time and energy to satisfying Brenda, the busty blonde singer at the Birdcage Bar.

Weeknights were comparatively restful. Some might have arranged to take their weekend conquest to the pictures though few could by then afford to honour the promise. Pints of cheap local beer were the order of the day and the bar manager would organise darts and pool competitions, the pub having nothing else to offer by way of entertainment. His few other regulars were not the Jersey Frenchmen who comprised the bulk of the winter population, but one-time seasonal workers for whom the island had become a tolerable Alcatraz. One such was Terry, a London stockbroker turned Jersey dustman who sought nothing more from life than to occupy his own bar stool and drink from his own beer mug. Jimmy Lang was another, a Glaswegian plasterer trapped for over five years in an alcoholic's 'sub' culture - borrowing half his wages every Monday to pay back on Friday. "If I could only stay dry for a week or two," he would moan, "I just want to see a train again and maybe watch Rangers play Celtic, that's aw."

At sixteen Jenny had travelled from her unhappy home in Kent to become a receptionist at her uncle's hotel at St. Brelades Bay, where she was plied with compliments, cocktails and overly tactile affection. Three years on, following treatment at St. Saviours Hospital for schizophrenia and alcoholism, Jenny found a perverse sense of belonging and a regular supply of free drinks in the company of St. Helier's male itinerant workforce.

Over a slow weekday pint, the clique would sometimes swap the latest gossip. To everyone's surprise Tommy and Jenny had been spotted together at various secluded venues.

"You'd better tell him, Dai," said Danny one night. "He's your mate."

"I can't Dan…I mean…why upset him? Might be his first time for all I know."

Without the Jamesons Danny could be stroppy. "She's a slag, for God's sake!"

Dai looked at the floor. "Yeah, but the girl's had a hard time. Besides, I've seen you chat her up often enough."

"Look, I feel sorry for her - but she's still a slapper." Danny looked up as he said it to find Tommy had been eavesdropping.

"Who're you talkin' about?" Tommy asked.

"Jenny," said Dan, casually.

"Yeah? What about Jenny?"

Dai intervened. "Leave it, Tom."

"No, I want to know. What's the big secret, Danny?"

"Oh, it's no secret."

Tom had to be physically restrained now. "Tell me, you gossiping bastard!"

"OK. She visited the clinic again this mornin'."

Tommy's face froze. "She never said… Clinic? What clinic?"

Danny sighed. "The clap clinic - where else?"

That Saturday night three cabs brought the friends to a secluded cabaret spot near Gorey Castle. Dennis the Scoucer chippie had suggested Les Arches because he had a thing about Lucy McMahon, a singer from Liverpool who was appearing there on the comeback trail.

The group occupied three tables the tops of which were barely visible beneath a sea of foamy-topped two-pint jugs of Watneys and half-pint glasses. As they chatted they scanned the other tables, experienced eyes pre-selecting likely unattached dance partners for the evening. After the band struck up the close-knit gathering fragmented.

Lucy resembled an animated waxwork and the humid evening conspired with lavishly applied makeup to cause her face to glow in the spotlight as she warbled a few numbers from her heyday. Dennis was ecstatic when she sidled up to his chair and pinched his cheek in the middle of "I Don't Know What To Do With Myself." Tommy flinched, and turned a bright red when she moved across and sat on his knee to finish her song. Trapped by the weight, he wriggled desperately, pushing backwards until the chair folded, forcing Lucy to steady herself by grabbing the table, upsetting all the drinks in the process. The sympathetic applause that followed was drowned out by laughter. As he rose to his feet, his face contorted with rage, Tommy's gaze singled out Danny. "He's mine," Tommy whispered inexplicably, to no one in particular.

Jock Shaw was waiting by the main entrance for a tipsy young lass from Birmingham he'd persuaded to join him for a late night swim. He was watching as Tommy waylaid Danny on his way to the toilets and overheard the Irishman's protestations of disbelief, as the other appeared to drag him towards the door. "You all right lads?" he shouted.

"Yeh, no sweat Jock." Danny sounded surprisingly composed. "Seems Tom here has a grudge to settle, whatever that means." They kept on walking.

The Scotsman escorted his date back to her table then hurried in pursuit. The large front lawn was as smooth as a bowling green, dark in the centre with weak arc lights illuminating the colourful surrounding flowerbeds. As he ran the sound of the music receded enabling him to discern repetitive bone-crunching thuds, accompanied by muffled groans. In the distance he could make out a kneeling figure over a prone one and soon realised the angry blows were being met with no resistance. "For God's sake, Tommy, stop it - that's enough!"

He grabbed the flailing fist. It was Danny's. "Oh God, what have I done, Jock?" he whispered in disbelief.

Tommy discharged himself from hospital ahead of the XRay results. He didn't go back to his digs. Crowded beaches were searched all day Sunday and again on Monday and Tuesday after work. On Wednesday evening Dai barely recognised the crumpled figure he found under the promenade. Tommy refused to move. At intervals he repeated "Leave me be," through swollen lips. His unshaven face was grotesquely bruised and discoloured. Soon the others were plying him with food, cigarettes, beer and spirits, begging him to return to his lodgings, aware that he could be arrested and repatriated to the mainland without their knowing. Each time he would curse and send them away.

On the Sunday Danny arrived at the pub in a customer's Mercedes convertible he'd been working on all week. "Test drive," he said, with a wink. After lunch he drove four of the group to the Trad Jazz concert in the Tartan Bar at Corbierre, the others following by taxi.

Four large brandies didn't seem to work for Danny anymore so he ordered more, refusing the Guinness. An hour later, having upset his friends, the band and the management, he was escorted from the premises.

Crossing the Esplanade in the warm glow of the St. Helier sunset, two policemen struggled under the weight of a homeless Welsh vagrant they'd found on the beach. They stopped short and watched horrified as an open-top car approached and passed them at twice the all-island speed limit, missing them by inches before glancing off a row of parked cars and plunging headlong into the harbour.

Copyright Eddie Bruce 2004. All rights reserved

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