Chapter 5

      George had been looking forward to a drink all afternoon and he didn’t take any time in pushing open the door of the pub and rushing inside. Clinking glasses, laughs and the occasional cheer filtered through the doorway to the Grapes, their local drinking haunt.

      From the entranceway two doors led off, one to the private patrons’ bar and one to the public bar, the latter more brightly lit through the frosted glass of the door. Shadows moved inside. The patrons’ bar, by comparison, appeared empty.

      George knew which side they would be welcome in and walked straight through the public bar door, taking his hat off, to where the smell of stale ale mixed with sweat, and the heavy fog of smoking hit his nostrils. The noise was louder inside as men tried to talk over each other and make their orders heard at the bar.

      ‘Let’s find the lads,’ Tom said, from behind him, raising his voice to be heard as they pushed their way into the pub.

      The bar was a loose ‘L’ shape and as they moved around the corner George heard Tom’s name being shouted.

      ‘Tom! Get over here, lad. Pull up a stool and get your lips around a nice bevvy. Don’t waste any time!’ Patrick waved them over as he shouted.

      George could just about see them through the cloud of smoke and the press of bodies. He and their other old school mate Harry had already got themselves a table in the corner and sat around it with pints of ale.

      ‘Evening, lads,’ Tom said as they got through the crowd. ‘Cains again, is it?’ He gestured to the glasses of thick, brown ale.

      ‘Aye,’ Patrick said. ‘Harry won’t drink anything else, will he?’

      Harry tried to say something but had a mouthful of ale.

      ‘Everyone has their family pride,’ Patrick continued. ‘The only time I ever got him to drink something else was when he lost at Crown and Anchor. And even then he spat most of it up.’ He took a short drag on his cigarette. ‘Say, lads. Why don’t we play another game now?’

      Harry lurched forward and ale spat down his front and across the table. The others laughed, and he joined in with them as the remnants of the ale frothed around his lips.

      Patrick was always trying to be the life of any gathering and tonight was no exception. His blond hair was ruffled as if he had just dragged himself through a bush, and his thin, wiry frame would definitely aid in that.

      Harry, on the other hand, was exactly the opposite; he cut his brown hair close to his head and his short thick frame would easier knock the bush over than slide through it. He was also slightly slower on the uptake than the others, and found himself lagging behind most conversations and, indeed, jokes.

      ‘Stop being cruel to Harry, O’Brien. He drinks what he wants to drink and no one should tell him otherwise.’

      Tom sat down on a stool next to Patrick and pulled one out for George. Harry handed him a cigarette, and he lit it, taking a long drag, letting the cool, blue smoke escape his mouth.

      ‘So what news, Tom Adams?’ Patrick asked, puffing smoke while waiting for an answer. Tom put the glass to his lips and waited for a long moment, refreshing the taste of his beer, before answering.

      ‘Not much to say, Paddy. Work, work and more work for us.’

      The others nodded in sympathy. Patrick shot him a look.

      ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ Harry asked. ‘Like football or something? Is anyone going along to the match at the weekend?’

      ‘No, Harry, I don’t think so,’ Tom said, humouring him. ‘I think we have other plans.’

      ‘Come on, Williams. It’s only a friendly, why bother?’ Patrick put his arm around Harry’s shoulders, who deflated at the response.

      ‘The season doesn’t kick off for another month, Harry,’ George added. ‘Paddy is right. Besides it’s not like you support a proper football team.’ He tried to flick a cheeky smile to show Harry that he was jesting, but Patrick slammed his glass down.

      ‘You know I don’t like that name, Abbott. Don’t ever call me that again.’

      He leaned over the table and raised a fist at George, a little stylised cross on a silver chain dropping out of his shirt. He reached for it with his other hand.

      Tom put his hand around Patrick’s fist and slowly pushed him back towards his own seat.

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with the reds, George,’ said Harry. ‘Just because they’re not as old as Everton, doesn’t mean they’re not a proper club. You take that back.’

      As always, Harry seemed to have missed the undertones to the conversation and the others laughed, breaking the uneasy tension that had built up from nowhere.

      ‘Sorry, Harry. I’m sure they’ll do better this season, but not if we can help it!’ George pushed another pint of ale in Harry’s direction and gave him a wink.

      ‘So how’s the rice industry, O’Brien?’ Tom broke his silence, then had another drink. He lit another cigarette from the butt of his last one.

      ‘Work is much the same as always, I guess it’s the same as down at the dock.’

      George very much doubted that, but didn’t say anything.

      ‘Always back-breaking and sweating buckets without any thanks. I’m sure I constantly smell like rice,’ he laughed wryly.

      ‘Better than smelling like brandy,’ Tom interjected. ‘My old mum thinks I always come home drunk from work. She won’t listen that it’s thanks to those barrels.’ He sniffed his armpit in mock theatricality. ‘Brandy and sweat, a fine combination, fit for the middle classes.’

      George chuckled. ‘Well, at least she’ll be right tonight, when you go home flat drunk,’ he said as he passed his mate another pint from the dwindling row of full glasses on the table.

      ‘That’s right!’ Harry shouted, and the others roared with laughter.

      ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Adams.’ Patrick leaned over conspiratorially and covered one side of his face with a hand, as if he was going to whisper into Tom’s ear and he didn’t want anyone else to overhear.

      ‘Things have not been going well at the millers.’

      ‘Oh, aye?’ Tom feigned interest, but Patrick didn’t seem to notice.

      ‘Yeah. The supervisors are getting jumpy. Things have been going badly for a while. We’ve kept on working, doing our thing, but they’ve been getting worried nonetheless. The unions are urging us to strike, and winding up the owners, but we don’t know what’s best.’ He leaned closer. ‘I think Bailey’s going to call a picket any day now, you wait.’ He sighed. ‘There’s too much trouble at the moment.’

      ‘You’re right, O’Brien, there is. I don’t know what you should do, but you should try listening to the union man. Surely they’ve got your best interest at heart?’