Alright, big boy, what’d ya reckon it’ll be: beef or chicken? Let’s bet on it. Fish. Fish!? Stop messing about. Only cats eat fish. Whippets eat fish too. Maybe in your house. What’s he like anyway, the old boy? Pretty useless. That figures. He’s kindly and forgetful. Always apologising. Not a pack leader. Not like yours. OK, anyway, beef or chicken? Chicken. No, I’m betting on chicken so you’ll have to choose beef. So how’s it going? Like it down here? Alright. Warmer than where I’m from. Oh yeah? Don’t start the old grim up north toffee with me, brindle lad. Where exactly you from? Born in Boston. Boston? That’s in bloody Lincolnshire. That’s not north, that’s midlands. Then we moved near Doncaster. Ok that’s a bit north. So was it always just the old boy? No there was an old girl too. She was the pack leader. She used to feed the cats but after two nibbles they’d clear off so I’d reach up and nudge the bowl off onto the floor. Clever. There’s an art to that. There is. So I’d eat the rest of it in one go. She never minded. Made her laugh. Soft-hearted? I don’t know about that. I used to get a few tellings off. Yeah? See she had this old Jack Russell. Ugly-looking. Had a docked tail. Really? That’s cruel in it? I wouldn’t want that. Mind you, if I could have chosen between losing that or me nuts… That’s right. But I think it made him mean. He could be a bit of a bastard but he was like a dad to me in the end. Cunning though. Yeah? You got stories? Well, in the kitchen they were always leaving out stuff thinking we couldn’t get it. One day they left some pork pies in a bag on the counter. So the old Jack Russell said, You reach up and get em and we’ll share em. So I get right up on my hind legs, strain like mad to get the bag - just about get my teeth to it - drag it to the edge then pull it over. It come crashing down to the floor, but before I had chance to get some he’d snaffled the lot, just leaving a bit of crust for me. What a bastard. Yeah, but I gradually learnt how to bring things down so he didn’t get so much. He still got most of it, though. But it was fun. We had quiche - anything with egg in I liked best. Actually I could tell you a story about an egg. We had sausages, bacon, bread rolls, biscuits, fruit cake. And you can guess who got all the blame? Coz old shortarse could never get up there could he? Yeah, clever. But they’re all right, int they, terriers? You can have a laugh with them. Not like some of these other tossers. That’s right. So tell me this story about the egg. Oh boy. They had a huge garden once. Lawn was on two levels. They had four chickens. Vicious bastards. They are int they? I’ve found that out. So one day the old girl’s picked up some eggs from the hutch and put them in a basket, then she starts yakking to a neighbour like she always does. Distracted. So I stick my head in and get one in my mouth and run away with it. She starts shouting and I’m off racing round the garden. Leaping over raised beds and wooden steps and fish ponds. They’re shouting and laughing and they can’t catch me. Five minutes later I just stop, open my mouth and the egg’s still perfect. Wow. You were a master thief. And I got the tea. Tea? What’s all that about? Yeah. She would always leave her tea on the window-ledge when she went to the bathroom. I found I could stretch up and put my snout right in. Never spilt a drop. Never knocked a cup over. I like tea. And she always had Earl Grey. Lovely and sweet. I had the lot. Earl Grey? You’re having a laugh now ain’t you? No. I’m not. Earl Grey? Is that what you grim-up-northerners drink? Not like softy southerners eh? I never say that. So you ever get caught? Only by the old boy. He told her and laughed about it. She told me off. Then the silly cow left her tea out the next day too. So it was just you and him, this Jack Russell then? Well, there were three of us at one time. We had a Jackawawa for a while. Jackawawa? Yeah. More wawa than Jack though. You know, chihuahua cross. I see. Another annoying yappy thing. That’s right. Hilarious she was. Silly as arseholes. If we encountered a German shepherd or something in the street she’d play the little Napoleon, telling him to get out her way and he’d just stare at her like she was a rat. Funniest thing was her trying to get up a tree once to catch a squirrel. Frantically trying to get her little legs up the trunk, she was. She couldn’t do it. The squirrel just sat on the branch laughing at her. That’s funny. Handbag dogs they call em. But I ask you, what’s the point? I mean, you ever been in someone’s handbag? Yeah I have actually. The old girl’s. Oh yeah, sure. No I have. I’ve pulled out cosmetics, hair brush, hair net, notebook, cigarette pack. You’re a right little kleptomaniac. Where’d you put ‘em all? I kept them on the lawn till she found them. I had hats, shoes - visitors were told to keep theirs on - even one of them little umbrellas. Blimey. Could have had your own shop by the sound of it. I could. Except I’d never want to sell em. I just liked to have them. I see. So what happened to the other dogs? The Jack Russell died of a stroke and she— The jackawawa? Yeah. She went back to her original owner. She was trouble. That’s interesting. See,I think all these new breeds nowadays are either just vicious bastards or totally useless. All fluff and nonsense. Might as well be in the zoo. Breeds had a point once. You had your chasers like us, you had your catchers, diggers like your Jack Russell mate, and so on. This new lot - we’ve had a few of them in here all dandified, prettified little tossers, but cross them and you’ll know it. Right mouth on some of them. I mean where’s the grace, where’s the elegance, and what’s the bloody point? That’s right. So how do you find it here then? Lots of little yappy things round your way, is there? Yes. Quite a few whippets too. Some of the young uns? Boisterous little buggers int they? Need to keep out of their way. Yeah but we all used to be like that. I still am. Yeah? Yeah, when I’ve got my zoomies on. Zoomies? Yeah I have my routine. I run from the lounge sofa through the hallway, to the bedroom, fling myself around like crazy on the old boy’s bed, race back to the lounge, leap clean over the coffee table straight on to the sofa. Then do it all again. It winds up the old boy something chronic, worried I’ll injure myself. Yeah? And after how many Earl Greys is that then? None. He don’t drink earl grey. Darjeeling he has. Oh blimey. Not as sweet though. Plus he’s crafty with it. Well, I’ve just seen something. I reckon it’s chicken so you can concede the bet now. Too early. OK. But i do know she bought some today coz I saw her taking it out of the car. So, tell me, you got any hard nuts down your way? One or two. They don’t tangle with me. Fancy yourself, do you? I’m used to it. I used to have three German shepherds on the regular walk barking away. Bark back? No just gave em me look. I bet that worked. Oh hang on I think the food’s coming now. So we’ll see who won. Winner gets first dibs. Ok. You know, I’m glad you’ve come. We’ve had a good laugh. Whippets got to stick together. Better than the miserable bastards we usually get here. Always moaning. Owner does this. Owner does that. Get over it, I tell them. Oh no. No I don’t believe it. It’s bloody fish! I can smell it. What’s going on? She must be clearing the freezer out. Must be for your benefit. And it looks like she’s put sweet corn on it. Like that? Love it. So I guess since I chose chicken I won. How’s that? I said fish. No we agreed it was between beef and chicken. And you chose beef. Alright. So it’s a no bet then. No as I said, I chose chicken and, being white meat, that’s closer to fish, so I won. But you’re a guest so we’ll forget about it. Very gracious of you. And you can have some of the sweet corn since you like it so much. Have it with your Earl Grey. Come on tuck in, me first.
I had been a bit of a loner as a teenager. My big sister wanted to spend time with her boyfriend and the last thing she wanted to do was to spend time with me, my parents both worked and I had no real friends where I lived so I would spend many hours simply walking through London, visiting the sights, the museums and the parks. If I didn’t feel like walking, or time was a bit short then buses were my principal mode of transport as they allowed me to see where I was going. On the top of the bus one could see into the upper windows of the shops and houses that one passed as well as looking down on the crowds scurrying along the pavements on their way to somewhere. Occasionally I would use the tubes, but they didn’t have the same attraction for me. It always seemed to me that by the time you had walked from the entrance to the platform and then, if you had to change lines, walked between lines, you might just as well have walked all the way.
My walks would take me all over London, past the old markets of Smithfield, Billingsgate, Covent Garden and Leadenhall, strangely quiet in the afternoon. Into and around the great Royal Parks always buzzing with activity of one kind or another. On a weekend I would love to venture into the City of London which was ghostly quiet with so little traffic I could walk down the middle of Cheapside without fear of being run down. But my favourite trips were to the great museums. Of course, I would go to the British Museum because it was such a grand building with such extraordinary treasures, and then the Natural History Museum with its fabulous architecture and the displays of dinosaur skeletons and models of huge elephants and the Blue Whale, but to a young boy, the best and greatest of them all was the Science Museum. Nothing could beat the displays of vast steam engines which, at the press of a button would whir into life or the aeroplanes and locomotives and cars on display all available at no cost. In the basement there was a special children’s gallery which was a paradise of button pushing and automation. I spent many a happy hour in that museum and knew the basement so well I think I could have navigated it with my eyes closed.
I am older now, but I still cannot resist the lure of a button to press, nor have I given up walking through London. It was on one such walk that I came upon the button that said “press”. I had been made redundant a month or so before, and I was at a loose end. It was a weekend and I decided to head into the City to see if it was as quiet as it used to be when I was young. I headed down Goswell Road, onto Aldersgate and into the Barbican Centre. I had seen this modernist development being built when I was growing up and found it fascinating, not least because it gave one an opportunity to walk on pedestrian only walkways without fear of traffic. It was like nothing else in London with shallow lakes and raised flowerbeds surrounded by towering skyscrapers containing residential flats overlooking the roofscape of London. The high-level walkways were hung with creepers and the lakes were filled with huge carp. It hadn’t changed much. The trees were more mature as were the gardens and the whole thing had softened, but it was still as fascinating now as it had been then.
I crossed London Wall and into the old City by the Guildhall across to Cheapside and then into the myriad of alleyways and courts that make up the old city. I am familiar with the City, having worked there for some time and, as I have said, walked it many times at a weekend, so I was not afraid that I could get lost. I turned to left and to right, sometimes coming out into places that are familiar to all like the Bank and The Royal Exchange, sometimes into less familiar places like Cowper’s Court. I could feel the history of these places as places of commerce, and I could almost hear the bustle of the coffee houses that must have lined each of these alleys and streets in the past. I reached a crossing of two alleys and instead of following the alley I was in, I turned to the left and found myself in a place I had never been before. I walked for about 50 feet at which point the alley took a slight turn to the right and narrowed to a dead end. I was about to turn to retrace my steps when I noticed the button.
It was a plain button with the word “Press” printed in its centre. It was quite unlike one of those wonderful buttons that used to be on the old Routemaster buses; red buttons inside a silver-coloured metal ring with the words “Push Once to Stop” engraved around it, or any of the small brass buttons in the Science Museum. It was about an inch in diameter made of some ceramic material set in a metal frame, itself set into a brick wall about two feet wide. The short alley that I had turned into led under a building, so it was more of a short tunnel than an alley. There were no windows on any side, and, because of its position, it was quite dark. I hesitated. The button did not seem to control anything. There was no door, no speaker that I could see and no bell that I was aware of. But the button said “press”.
The man stood on the deck of the Seagull as the vessel was tied off and her gangway lowered. Moments later the man stood on the quayside. After nine years at sea. He was home. He had done well during his time away. And was buoyed up with thoughts of enterprising prospects. He felt uplifted. In good spirits. Looking about the bustling harbour to familiarise himself with half-forgotten landmarks, the man became aware that his feelings of well-being were draining from him and his good spirits dissipated. He sought a cause for his unsettling mood swing. The quayside was busy. Stevedores and dockers were offloading cargo onto a convoy of waiting drays; the air was heavy with the tart smell of the sea mingled with smoking fish; market traders lined the street to the town square; their stalls laden with vegetables; meat, fish, bread, pastries, clothing, and leather goods. Townsfolk moved about amongst the market stalls; men, women, children. On the surface, the scene appeared normal to the man. His senses told him otherwise. Something was wrong. He studied the faces of people moving by. They all looked miserable, unhappy; unwell, as though in the grip of some ague or fever. The man took note of what was missing from the scene before him. It was the commonplace everyday sounds and noises of a busy harbour town: the absence of banter, laughter, and shouting. The townsfolk were going about their business in a desultory and half-hearted manner. Fearing the town was recovering from some form of plague, the man shrank back. Was his hometown not to be a haven? With creeping uncertainty, he made his way to the town square. The King’s Head was where he remembered. It displayed years of neglect. Entering the tavern the man noted that although the place was relatively busy, its patrons were unusually quiet; the atmosphere sombre. Taking a tankard of ale from the unhappy-looking landlord. The man crossed to an armchair by the fireplace. In the chair opposite, an old man sat staring into the fire. ‘Good day to you, sir,’ the man said. Without turning, the old man said, ‘I’ll grant you it is day, but it is not good.’ Intrigued, and thinking again that some sorry plight had befell his hometown, the man asked. ‘Why so?’ He leaned in, his voice low, ‘Has the town been visited by a plague?’ The old man raised his head. ‘Would that it had,’ he muttered. ‘A town can recover from a plague.’ He glanced away, warily, lowered his voice, and whispered, ‘Not so a curse.’ ‘A curse?’ the man said, mimicking the old man’s tone. ‘The town is cursed?’ ‘Aye,’ the old man whispered back, ‘it is. These past seven years.’ ‘How so? By whom? By what?’ ‘By Clara Wetshall, that’s who.’ ‘Who is she?’ ‘She was a witch. Burnt at the stake out on the square.’ ‘Are you saying that she put a curse on the town?’ ‘I am,’ the old man whispered. ‘How so?’ ‘By her dying words,’ the old man said. ’What were they?’ The old man glanced slowly about the room, then leaned into the man, lowered his voice to a faint whisper, and said, ‘As the fire consumed her limbs, she cried out, “From this day forth none here shall know neither peace nor restful sleep; neither shall they know happiness again.”’ The man sprang back as though bitten. Two men approach. ‘We’ll take your purse,’ one hissed, displaying a rust-tarnished knife. The man rose slowly, turned aside, and put his tankard on the stone mantelpiece. When he turned back he held a pair of flintlock pistols at chest height. He cocked their hammers. ‘Step aside,’ he barked. ‘Or take a ball each.’ The men complied. Guardedly, the man moved to the tavern door. Outside, the man concealed his pistols beneath his cloak and retraced his steps to the quayside.
He encountered the Seagull’s captain. ‘Do you sail on the morning tide?’ the man asked. ‘I do.’ ‘I will book passage with you.’ ‘Very well.’ The man looked back up the harbour road to the town square. He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, ‘I shall abide aboard your vessel this night.’
Retwords 