‘All right?’ she asked behind those big, big eyes.
‘Whoo I’m okay. Powerful stuff that stuff.’
My hand was not shaking because of the bloody drink. No, no, no! Her dressing gown had opened almost down to her waist as she leaned forward to light up. What a pair of tits she had on her!
‘You have a fine pair of, eh! breasts there, Joan. You really have.’
‘Thanks but they are a bit small.’
‘What are you talking about? Whoo they’re perfect.’
She smiled gracefully.
I placed my glass carefully on the carpet and as I leaned across to her, knocked it over.
‘Don’t mind it,’ said Joan, ‘just leave it lying.’
Her gown lay precariously round her shoulders, she jerked forward slightly and it fell on to the cushions behind her.
I placed a forefinger on each of her nipples feeling remarkably fine for a Wednesday.
Dinner for Two
By the time he had found his front door key, Mr Joranski the landlord approached carrying a bag of groceries.
‘Well Charles,’ he asked, ‘get paid?’
‘Yes John, I’ll be able to give you three weeks.’
‘What?’ Mr Joranski was astonished.
‘They gave me a tenner for some reason.’
‘Very nice. Very nice. You want some food?’
Charles nodded, ‘Yes. Great, I’ll be down in a minute.’
Mr Joranski departed to the basement and Charles climbed the steep stairs leading to his room on the third floor. He changed into his best trousers and jumper and pulled on his newly purchased black socks.
By the time he had reached the basement the landlord had the table set and the meal almost ready.
The basement consisted of a communal sitting room with a television, an old decrepit couch and odd chairs dotted around the walls. One enormous peculiar table lay propped against one wall. Everything from poker games to shove halfpenny took place on this table. If there were unexpected guests or perhaps a big game on at Wembley every bed and chair in the house would be occupied and the landlord would throw a blanket on his table and sleep there himself. He had been a soldier. Rumour had it he had carried this table all the way from Warsaw through two concentration camps, walked across Europe, come by rowing boat to Aberdeen and from there hitchhiked his way to King’s Cross. No one could understand how he had managed to get it down the basement stairs and through the narrow sitting-room door.
‘Sure you can afford it?’ he asked as Charles gave him nine singles. ‘Nine quid from ten leaves one you know?’
‘Take it quickly man.’
‘Okay.’ Mr Joranski smiled, ‘You want to borrow anything later just come down. Not too much though or we’re back to the beginning again, all right?’
‘Bring on the grub John,’ said Charles.
‘Yes, yes bring on the grub. I have good sausage Polish!’ He shook his head. ‘German no good, Hungarian not too bad. Polish?’ he smacked his lips. ‘Mmmm. Here cut some bread.’
Charles sliced through the thick crusty loaf.
‘Any butter?’ he asked.
‘Butter?’ echoed John, ‘Of course butter. What do you think?’
He pulled a packet from his provision bag. The kettle whistled from the kitchen. John rose.
‘I go make some tea.’
Charles buttered a few thick slices of bread and cut some chunks of blue cheese. The landlord returned in a matter of moments with two odd mugs of tea.
‘I’m starving John,’ said Charles.
‘You should eat more,’ he poured some condensed milk into the mugs of tea. ‘Sugar?’ he inquired.
‘No! Good God!’ Charles shook his head. ‘It’ll taste like tablet.
Christ knows how you’ve a tooth left in your head.’
‘Good for you,’ replied John. ‘Cream and sugar. Kill the taste of this lousy tea. Bloody English tea.’ He snorted contemptuously, ‘Ugh, lousy lousy.’
‘British tea,’ corrected Charles out of habit. ‘Why d’you buy the stuff then?’
‘Who knows?’ The landlord bit off a chunk of bread and munched happily.
‘John,’ said Charles, ‘this is the finest sausage I’ve ever tasted.’
‘Back home,’ replied John, mouth filled with salami, ‘back home this is only average.’ He drank some tea. ‘Charles you should go to my country sometime. Food!’ his eyes widened. ‘Ha! In England you oil the machine that right?’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full man. You remind me of old Jackson up the stair,’ said Charles.
‘He pay me every Wednesday. Every Wednesday never misses.’
‘What’s that got to do with his eating habits? Every time I talk to him when we’re eating I can’t see my tea for his dinner floating around in my cup.’
‘Ah plenty rent no manners,’ the landlord shrugged his shoulders, ‘How bad?’
‘You are all business John, all business,’ Charles shook his head slowly.
‘All business!’ cried the landlord. ‘All business? Eat my sausage and pay me nothing.’ Joranski jumped to his feet. ‘You shout business to me!’
‘Take it easy man.’
‘Easy? If I’m business you’d be in Euston Station, dossing with dossers. Come on get more tea Scotchman.’
‘Get it yourself you immigrant bastard,’ answered Charles in anger.
‘Immigrant bastard?’ repeated John. ‘Get the tea! Get a job! Comb your hair and get it cut and a bath. Come on get some rent money for me,’ he bellowed pounding his chest with a slice of bread.
‘Just gave you nine quid man. What you on about?’
‘Fifteen I want. Five weeks at three is fifteen plus two and six for this food.’ John thumped his table and sat down. ‘You think I’m daft Scotchman. You come and tap me for the money by Sunday morning I know.’
‘You just told me to ask if I needed it for God’s sake.’
‘I’m a bloody fool,’ he whacked his forehead with his hand. ‘Right Scotchman I get the tea.’ He stood up again.
‘That’s okay John,’ Charles got to his feet, ‘I’ll go for it.’
‘Sit!’ bawled the landlord, brandishing the bread knife. ‘I cut your bloody head off.’
‘Okay you get the bloody tea then,’ Charles sat down.
‘Lazy lazy dossing Scotch bastard. Come on why don’t you go home?’
‘This is my home, Joranski. Thought you were getting the tea Daddy?’
The landlord snorted, ‘My son would not be like you.’
He went through to the kitchen and returned with the teapot.
‘No,’ he continued, ‘I throw him out if he is like you.’
Charles said nothing.
‘Come on. Take some more sausage. Plenty cheese.’
‘Thanks.’ Charles cut a slice and passed it to John.
The landlord bit a chunk and grinned, ‘Old Jackson won’t eat sausage. I offer him many times but he says no. Garlic.’
‘Yeah garlic,’ agreed Charles, ‘course he’s English.’
‘Yeah,’ nodded John, ‘he’s English.’
Both men finished and began clearing the table.
‘Well?’ asked Mr Joranski, ‘You going to buy me some beer now?’
‘Okay! With pleasure. Come.’
An old pub near the Angel
Charles wakened at 9.30 a.m. and wasted no time in dressing. Good God it’s about time for spring surely. Colder than it was yesterday though and I’ll have to wash and shave today. Must. The face has yellow lines. I can’t wear socks today. Impossibility. People notice smells although they say nothing.
Think I will do a moonlight tonight, I mean five weeks’ rent? He has cause for complaint. Humanity. A touch of humanity is required. He has fourteen tenants paying around £3.00 each for those poxy wee rooms, surely he can afford to let me off paying once in a while. One of his longest-serving tenants. Man I’ve even been known to clean my room on occasion with no thought of rent reduction.