I could see the world. It can't be all sea and desert. I could see the other side of the world, Sydney Harbour, Bondi Beach, it must knock Margate into a cocked hat. I could see Sue, before she gets a message, saying— Before she says to Andy, who I reckon aint wearing that Afghan jacket any more, 'It's the old man,'
A goner.
And I could say, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I stopped writing. Because it was me who stopped first, I'll admit that, but I had my reasons. I'm a small man but I've got my pride and I aint good at admitting things. It was because of Carol. It was because Carol went and left me, dumped me for some other joker, and I was ashamed and afraid to tell you because I reckoned you'd think, for all that you and she used to be daggers drawn, that it was my fault somehow, or I was only pitching for sympathy or it was something to do with you having taken off in the first place. I thought not writing at all was better than thinking up lies, that's what I thought. Except, now you know that and now you know haven't told you for nigh on twenty-five years, it probably puts me even more under suspicion. And for twenty-five years you must've been thinking that there was Carol and me on the other side of the world, but me mainly, and we'd just decided not to write. Out of sight, out of mind. Must've made you all the gladder you hopped it. But here I am anyway, now, telling you, saying it to your face. Carol left me about six months after you did, that's a feet. And the fact is I stopped missing her a long time ago, that's how it is, but I aint ever stopped missing you.
Now, where are them grandchildren of mine? And the swimming pool. And aren't you going to show me some koala bears?
I could see the world. It might be better than seeing racetracks. WincantonWolverhamptonYork. It might be better than chasing nags. Have you heard? Old Lucky Johnson's given up the horses, aint going to put on another bet. The world's full of lonely, out-of-luck men, hanging round racetracks, betting shops, checking football results, tearing up chitties, tooling about on Sunday afternoons like prats, plugged into metal-detectors.
And I could say to Susie, And another thing I haven't told you. I haven't come all this way all on my ownsome, no, girl. Wait there just a moment. There's someone I— This is Amy. Amy, remember, your Auntie Amy as you called her? Except she aint your Auntie Amy now, not any more. You know what this trip is, don't you? It's not just any old trip, it's not just a family reunion.
Except then I'd have to come right out with it, wouldn't I? Own up. Me and your Auntie Amy. Just like your mum and— More to the point, I'd have to put it to Amy first, ask her, take the gamble. You don't get nothing without asking, nothing ventured, nothing gained, first law of wagering. But you don't get nothing neither, sometimes, by stirring up old embers. You just get ash. She said, 'We ought to stop this, I ought to start seeing June again,' looking like a nun who'd done a bunk from a convent. She said, 'I can't not see June.'
You fancy a trip to Australia? Down under?
And suppose she said, 'Forget it, Ray, that was over twenty years ago, wasn't it? We're old people now.' Suppose she just said, 'Forget it.' So maybe I'm better off on my tod, like I always was anyway. Seeing the world on my tod, going down under all on my tod, with thirty thousand smackers in my wallet, for ballast. No one need know. Vincey don't even know where his thousand went. I'd bank on it.
It won't happen again like that, miracles don't work twice. And it would've been sort of Jack's gift anyway, one way or the other.
Or maybe I should just give her the money, straight, clean. Here you are, Ame, it's thirty thousand, it's to see you right. Don't thank me, thank Jack and a horse. Except then I can't see how I couldn't tell her. That it was sort of meant like a sign, like a permit, like a blessing on the two of us, to carry on where we left off. And then it would be do or die again, your whole life on a yes or no. What do you say, Ame? And the whole world would have to know, if I was lucky. Not me seeing the world but the world seeing me. Raysy's a dark horse, aint he? Snappy work, if you ask me.
But then he knew all along. That's the long and the short of it. Had it all taped and sewn up. Just like he was, lying in that bed, sewn up. As if he was saying, These are my shoes, Raysy, go on, step in 'em, wear 'em. You always should've worn them, if there was anything other than the rule of blind chance in this world, if we could all see and choose in the first place. You and Ame. If we could choose. And you'd be riding Derby winners and Lenn/d be middleweight champ. And I'd be Doctor Kildare. And Vie? I reckon Vic's where he wants to be, I reckon Vic's got it all sorted out.
Go on, take 'em. They're about four sizes too big but I'd say you can walk in 'em.
If we could all see. We're coming up to where the Pier starts now. Barnacles Free House. Thanet Match Room -Snooker and Social If we could all see and choose. Bookies would go broke. But a few things happen anyway, a few things happen. Like we haven't seen or chosen them though we wouldVe if we could've, but they happen anyway, like they saw and chose us first, they saw us coming, like we aint been missed or overlooked altogether, even though we aint the tallest, smartest, niftiest, sharpest punter in the neighbourhood. The sky's pressing down like it's got to burst and Vince is looking for a place to pull in, and what I'm thinking is I'm holding the jar and I don't deserve. The sea's the colour of desertion. It's the colour of wet ash. The rain's coming. Oh Ray, you're a lovely man. To have lived and heard a woman say that to you, even if it aint true. You're a lovely man. The rain on the roof, the noise of the crowd like waves. With tears in her eyes and a flame in her throat: Oh Ray, you're a lovely man, you're a lucky man, you're a little ray of sunshine, you're a little ray of hope.
Jack
He said, 'Jack boy, it's all down to wastage. What you've got to understand is that what comes into the shop aint what goes out. Whole art of butchery's in avoiding wastage. If a butcher could get cost on what he chucks in his waste-bin and his fat-drawer, he'd be a happy man, wouldn't he? He'd be laughing. If you take away the weight of the wastage from what you buy in and divide what's left into what you paid, that'll give you your real cost to set against your takings and don't you ever forget it. Bone'll cost you and fat'll cost you and shrinkage'll cost you and not having your cutlery ground'll cost you. And ending up, because of poor keeping or poor cutting, with lots of measly scraps of meat that aint fit to sell to no one'll cost you more than anything. You got to keep a constant eye on wastage, constant. What ypu've got to understand is the nature of the goods. Which is perishable.'
Margate
Vince parks the car and I'm holding the jar, thinking, I don't deserve, I don't deserve. There's a rough sweep of ground, between the road and the sea, with a little old squat building in the middle of it, with a clock tower, a customs house or something, and the Pier leading off behind. On one side there's the inlet of the harbour, like the Pier's armpit, with a concrete ramp going down, and on the other there's just sea-front, high and railed, curving out the opposite way, with cliffs in the distance, murky white in the grey light, and seagulls doing stunts or lining up on the railings with their wings braced and akimbo. It's like that way it's not beach and sands any more, it's just open sea, North Sea, next stop Norway, and the Pier was put here in the first place to form the bay and the beach and the harbour, sheltering arm against the elements. Only trouble is the elements are coming the opposite way today.
Vince says, 'Right,' opening his driver's door before he's hardly switched off the ignition. 'Let's do it, let's do it.' It's like that slow drive along the front was just tightening his spring and now he wants to move fast. But the sky's telling us we ought to get weaving anyhow, you wouldn't think a sky could get so heavy without bursting. Vince looks up, holding out a cupped hand, half to feel for drops but half to beckon to us, fingers wagging, to get out and shift. It's still only spitting at us, teasing, but the waves seem to know that something's coming. They're jostling and squirming like animals at feeding time, like they're getting ready to get more wet.