He looks at me like he's sorry for having left it too late, for having to be going just when he was going to put things right. He would've been a changed man, course he would, change of heart, the world would've turned upside down just for us. Like he's sorry for having been the man he was. Is. But he's not going to mention her, he doesn't say he's sorry on account of her. He doesn't even look so apologetic for the things he's making you think he's sorry for. He looks at me so firm and straight and steady that I have to look away myself, just a flicker, though you'd think there shouldn't be time for that, not a second to spare from looking. But I think, I'll always see his face, I'll always see Jack's face, like a little photo in my head. Like a person never dies in the mind's eye.
But he doesn't mention June. He mentions Vince, who isn't, who wasn't ever ours. He says, 'Vince'll look after you. He's a good boy. He aint such a bad job.' He says that I'll be all right, I'll be looked after, but he doesn't say how he never looked after June, he doesn't say, 'And give June my love.'
So I think, Then I won't mention Ray, I won't say a thing about Ray. Though it's my last chance, and it's the time for it, at the bedside, now or never.
He won't mention June so I won't mention Ray. Fair dos. What you don't know can't hurt. But he looks at me with that unflinching, unblinking look, so I have to dart my eyes away again. I look at the next bed which, just for now, is empty, the sheets and covers stripped off, and when I look back, his own eyes haven't budged an inch, they're looking into me and beyond, like he'd like to step right through me and go on then turn round and come back and hug me. And he says, like it's his last word on everything, on why he's lying there and why I'm sitting there holding his hand, and why it had to be him, why I was saddled with him and not a thousand others, luck of a summer night, 'All a gamble, aint it? Ask Raysy. But you'll be all right.'
Margate
It doesn't look like journey's end, it doesn't look like a final resting-place, where you'd want to come to finish your days and find peace and contentment for ever and ever. It aint Blue Bayou. If you look one way, beyond the public bog where Lenny's disappeared, there's only grey thick sky and grey thick sea and a grey horizon having a hard job trying to mark the difference between the two, and the other way, across the road, it's like someone's put up a frontage in a hurry to outstare the greyness, it's like the buildings are a row of front-line troops drawn up to put a brave show on it, but it don't help exactly that they've been dressed up in joke uniforms.
Flamingo. Tivoli. Royal. Grab City.
Vince says, 'Marine Terrace.' He's got back in the car while we wait for Lenny. It's like he's decided to be our tour guide again, like in Canterbury Cathedral, except this time he's reeling it off out of memory. 'Marine Terrace, Margate. "Golden Mile".' But it's a short mile, it's about two furlongs and it don't look so golden, not in this weather, it don't look like it's made of gold. BurgersHotdogskesShakesTeas PopcornCandyflossRock. There are signs and coloured lights, some of them on, some of them flashing, everything rattling and shaking in the wind, and here and there a pavement placard on a chain lying where it's been blown flat. Most of the arcades look shut but one or two are lit up, all flickering and winking. By one of the entrances there's a geezer in a flat cap and a donkey jacket, perched inside a little booth, like he's only doing his duty. But they aint exactly flocking in.
Vince says, 'It's not season, of course.' You can imagine Vince running an arcade. It's not so different after all. Dodds Showrooms. Mirage. Gold Mine. Mr B's.
More little spots and spatterings are dotting the windscreen and Vince turns on the wipers but only gets a smear, so he turns them off again. The rain doesn't want to rain yet, though the sky's getting darker every second.
Vie says, 'Timed it perfect, didn't we? Wouldn't have thought, by this morning.' Vince says, 'Well we're here.' The sea don't know that.
Vie says, 'It's not good scattering weather,' as if the thought hadn't occurred.
Vince says, 'Depends how you look at it.' I'm holding the box. Vie says, 'Fair old wind.'
I say, like I only want to be sure, 'Where's the Pier?' Vince says, slow and patient, 'You're looking at it, Raysy. That thing right there that you're looking at, that's the Pier.' I say, 'It don't look like a pier.'
Vince says, 'But it's called the Pier. It's a harbour wall but it's called the Pier.' Then he launches into his tour-guide patter. 'There used to be this other thing called the Jetty, which looked like a pier, which you went on like a pier, where the steamboats came in. But they called it the Jetty, and that thing over there which is really a harbour wall, they call that the Pier.'
I say, 'Sounds reasonable. So what happened to the other thing - the Jetty?'
Vince looks at me like I ought to have mugged up on that too. 'Got swept away, didn't it, in a storm. Nineteen seventy-something. I remember Amy saying, "Did you hear about Margate Jetty?" I reckon that's why Jack specified the Pier. He didn't mean the Pier, he meant the Jetty. That's what we all remember, going on the Jetty. But he mustVe remembered there wasn't no Jetty any more, so he settled on the Pier.'
I'm getting confused so I don't say nothing.
Vince says, 'You can't see it from here, it must be behind the Pier, but there's supposed to be a bit of the Jetty still left, still standing, all by itself out to sea.'
I say, 'Well maybe that's been swept away today an' all.'
Vie says, 'This isn't a storm.' Voice of authority.
I think, Course not, looking at the spray.
The seagulls are whizzing around the sky like they're either having the time of their lives or they wish they'd never taken off.
Vince says, peering across the pavement, 'What's he doing? Gone for a paddle an' all?'
Then we see him, emerging from the lee of the walled-round entrance to the Gents. He can tell we're looking at him and he staggers a bit, deliberate, at the point where the wind catches him, pretending it's worse than it is. All the same, he glances grimly up at the sky, then he smiles, weakly, like a man always can when he's just emptied his bladder. He looks like the one who's always last and knows it, always keeping everyone waiting. He stands for a moment, with the railings and the grey sea behind him, as if because it's the seaside and he's the focus of attention he ought to do a quick comic turn but he can't think what, so he just stands there grinning, awkward, like he's having his photo taken. This is me at Margate. Shocking weather. He goes up on his toes all of a sudden, holding up his fists, rolling one shoulder, jabbing with his right. I reckon Lenny's face is its own comic turn. Then he moves towards the car, like it's hard work, he could be swimming for it, and opens the door. There's a blast of air.
'Aint weather for the beach,' he says.
'Mad March days,' Vince says.
Vie says, 'It's April.'
'April bleedin fools,' Lenny says.
'Mad Gunner Tate,' Vince says, like he didn't mean it to mean anything, it just came out.
'Mad Jack Dodds,' Lenny says, shutting the door. 'April first yesterday. You think he's whisked it all up special?'
You can't tell from holding the jar, no little trembles. Just the engine purring.