January 2012
It was quiet, even for a Tuesday night. Simon glanced round the NAAFI bar at the only four remaining customers: in the far booth there was the young couple who had sat all evening engrossed in their intimate conversation and making two pints of Fosters last forever. Over on the other side, two mature regulars were arguing heatedly; whether it was religion, politics or football, Simon had no way of telling, because the music from the juke box was blessedly shielding him from the sounds of their disagreement. He drew another glass from the machine and studied it intently, then he lovingly polished it until when he held it up to the light it gleamed. In a moment of quiet reflection he realised that he was looking at the world through the bottom of a beer glass, which he supposed just about put him in the same league as more than a few of his punters . . . how sad!
A movement to his left signified that the young couple had finally finished their drinks and were making for the door. He glanced at the clock; it was not quite ten o'clock, but he had a gut feeling that he would do no more business here tonight. If it kept on like this, then very soon there would be no business left to worry about.
It had all seemed such a great idea in the beginning, even the Nat West Manager had been enthusiastic about it; he had said that as there had been a barracks in Shoebury for so many years, there would be a genuine public interest for the town's new pub to stand where the demolished NAAFI had once stood. With a substantial bank loan to top up the advance from the brewery they were finally off.
There were no other themed bars in the Town, so The NAAFI immediately caught the public interest and became the place to be, especially for those people who had been in any way associated with the old barracks. The juke box was filled with nostalgic records, the walls were covered with war-time pictures, posters and flags and a scale model of HMS Endeavour had pride of place behind the bar.
Simon wondered whether his father would have approved; Kenneth Sandringham, the father he had never seen; the father who had been machine gunned on the beaches of Dunkirk a few months after Simon had been born; the father that his mother and step father never spoke about and of whom there were no photographic memories save for a faded black and white snap of his parents walking happily along the promenade at Eastbourne in happier days, which he had discovered, hidden within the pages of the Concise Oxford.
He reached for another glass, wondering how different his life might have been if his father had survived the war; he was an engineer and would have come back to a good job – perhaps with the extra funds he might have gone to university and carved a better career for himself than standing behind this rapidly downwards spiralling bar . . .
The two old codgers were still gesticulating at each other, their pints still two thirds full before them, completely ignored in the excitement. Simon turned to empty the drip trays – they won't want any more tonight – might as well start the shutting down, so when the old buggers finally go he can close up with very little left to do.
When he turned back round there was a man sat on a bar stool directly in front of him, staring morosely at his fingers, which were clenched together on the bar mat. Where the hell had he come from? He hadn't heard the door go and he had only been turned round for a few seconds . . . and what the hell did he think he was wearing?
In its heyday Simon had sometimes dressed in army uniform behind the bar to add to the atmosphere, and there were a few die hard enthusiastic punters who came along dressed in forties clothing, but that eccentricity had quickly worn off; however, this guy really looked the part: his hair was Brylcremed back in a neat short back and sides, with a dark pencil moustache spanning his top lip, the cut of his double breasted brown suit was severely dated and a grey trilby hat beside him on the bar completed the bizarre retro image. The man did look vaguely familiar and Simon racked his brains to think where from – he was pretty good at faces – but then, he reasoned, in his business you get to see so many faces on that side of the bar that you can never remember them all. He was probably a regular from the early days who hadn't been in for some time.
'What can I get you?' he asked, managing to force a friendly smile.
The man looked up with sad brown eyes, 'Whiskey . . . you'd better make it a double.' then resumed the intense examination of his fingers once more.
As he held the glass up to the optic, Simon said, 'Not seen you in here before.'
Without looking up, the man mumbled, 'I'm billeted here – I'm in here every night . . . you must be new.'
Alarm bells sounded inside Simon's head – spot the loony! At least that explained the weirdo's dress sense!
Just humour him, he thought, then after a couple of drinks perhaps he'll bugger off and annoy someone else! What he actually said, in his cheerful, man-of-the-world barman voice, was, 'You look as if you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders, friend.'
The man drained the spirit in one, swallowed, grimaced as the fire burnt its way down his throat, and then pushed his glass forwards again. Simon drained two more measures into it and turned round to find the man staring fixedly at him – it really was most disturbing.
After an extended embarrassing silence, during which the man's sad eyes never once left his, he said, in a voice ice cold and totally devoid of emotion, 'I'm going to kill my wife.'
Simon froze, his hand hovering halfway to the bar. He recovered with professional precision, placing the glass carefully on the counter – he had had to deal with some nutters in the bar in his time, but how did you answer that bombshell of a statement?
However, the man clearly didn't expect any response, because he continued, 'She's pregnant.'
'Congratulations.' the word slipped out of Simon's mouth without first engaging his brain and the moment it was out, he knew it was the wrong response, for the man glared up at him, took another swig of whiskey and said, 'Not me! You can keep your congratulations for that other dirty bastard . . .' his eyes stared through the wary barman, fixed on a point way off in some other dimension, 'I've come back on leave after a year in France . . . and I find my wife in the puddin' club! . . . Faithless bitch!'
This time Simon very wisely decided to keep quiet.
The man settled back to his morose staring at his fingers, clutched, white knuckled, around the squat glass.
After a few minutes of uneasy silence, the man spoke again, almost inaudibly, as if simply airing his thoughts out loud, 'We're being posted back to France tomorrow . . . She reckons I should just leave her to have the brat . . .' he paused, 'And I go back to fight and . . . and then that dirty bastard'll take care of the brat . . . and her . . . and I find the bullet with my name on it and everyone else lives happily ever after!' he drew in a long laboured breath, 'In his bloody dreams!' he spat, then he drained his glass, and in the same motion pushed it back over the counter. Simon absent-mindedly re-filled it.
'But if I were to survive this bloody war, then what have I got to come back to? Some dirty cuckoo in my bloody nest?'
Never before in his time behind the bar had Simon ever been totally stuck for words; never had he been so powerless to keep a conversation with a punter going – he was usually so articulate and quick witted – but this guy was so far past weird he was out the other side and running for the horizon!
The man absently sipped at his whiskey until, with a surprised look he pulled the empty glass away from his lips and examined it closely – he seemed to be having trouble making up his mind whether to have another one or not, but obviously settled on 'not', because he reached in his pocket and pulled out three half crowns, 'Thanks for listening, pal . . .' he pushed them across the counter to Simon, 'Keep the change.'
While Simon was staring incomprehensibly at the obsolete and quite inadequate coinage, the man extended his hand, shaking Simon's with a good firm grip, 'I'm Kenneth Sandringham, pleased to make your acquaintance . . . sorry to burden you with all my sorrows . . .'
Simon watched in stunned silence as the man walked quickly out of the bar, knowing now exactly where he knew the man's face from . . . a faded black and white happy couple walking arm in arm along a faded black and white promenade at Eastbourne. He recovered his senses and flung open the bar hatch and ran to the door. Outside the world he knew had changed – the modern housing estate had disappeared – in its place was the stark minimalism of the barracks married quarters – but even in this bizarre landscape his father was nowhere in sight. Simon ran to the corner of the road and checked both ways – no way could he have got this far . . .
A short distance away a door slammed – a shrill cry of surprise was cut short by the heavy explosion of a 9mm Browning Service revolver – Simon Sandringham felt himself beginning to fade into oblivion . . .