Andrew J. Kingston

1981

Brian Game and King Ricky LeGrande

 

Thick flakes of dust fell like plates through the pub’s front window, before hanging then eddying in whorls of cigarette smoke. Outside, the clang of metal traffic was cushioned by the pub’s thick walls, carpets and the tick of conversation.

 

King Ricky LeGrande’s eyes shone, though he was having to work hard. “Honestly, first time I met you Brian. When was it? 1972?”

 

“Hmm yes. 1972. That’s right.”

 

They’d reached an impasse. Brian had something to tell King Ricky, though Ricky seemed, too, to be trying to find a way to tell him something. It was almost as if the men were sparring, trying to engineer and find a way to get their messages through the conversation and the uncertain attentions of Lotty.

 

King Ricky was a big man with a cheerful face bearing brutal signs of prison and of time in the boxing ring. What didn’t sit quite so squarely in King Ricky’s story was his near total disinterest of what Brian would consider ‘proper’ drinking and the fact he was here, in Huddersfield. A bona fide New Orleans blues legend (Brian had been told on more than one occasion), though one more at home with half pints of Mild in an English saloon than rolling the Crescent City’s gutters with a pint of Bourbon in a brown paper bag.

 

“Can I get you another drink?” Brian asked out of form and politeness. He’d have preferred someone to keep up with him. In some ways, it was almost rude to set him so far adrift. Especially because if Ricky struggled to get on a bender; Brian had no idea how to get off his.

 

Ricky turned to Lotty.

 

“You ready for another one honey? I’m going to pass. But it is my round Brian.”

 

Lotty’s smile had lost its eagerness of two hours ago. She had been introduced as King Ricky’s ‘second cousin’. Brian wasn’t so sure. Or at least he wouldn’t have been if he cared. He valued Ricky’s friendship and would always visit at times like these. Crisis times. At any other time, he might even have enjoyed Lotty’s company, but right now, she was an irritant.

 

She was looking daggers at him. He smiled at her, knowing his face would be showing no joy. Her smiling ratcheted up the tension. King Ricky stood up, rolled like an ocean liner and disappeared into the fug hanging between their table and the bar. Brian fleetingly wondered if he should ask Lotty how she fitted into Ricky’s life and if the second cousin story would hold water. How old was she? Did she remember the war? What was her opinion on town planning or New Orleans blues?

 

Instead, he looked at his watch and gazed towards the bar, hoping to catch sight of Ricky.

 

As he got back and even before reaching the table, Ricky restarted the conversation. “So yes, 1972. You were up filming; I was hanging out. It was - was it in this pub?”

 

“Yes Ricky. The very same. Around about this table too.”

 

“Man. How about that?” Ricky dumped the glasses onto the table, adding to the slops which had overwhelmed the beer mats.

 

“Nice boozer this one,” Brian declared. “A simple interior. Nothing fussy; plain wainscotting and perhaps a few louche details here and there, but essentially functional. A place people can come and not be blasted by loud rock music. Somewhere where people can really sit down and share proper conversation.”

 

Lotty rolled her eyes. Clearly, she thought Brian was pontificating. Maybe he was. He couldn’t help himself. His break from broadcasting had an increasingly settled feel but still, he could hold forth with or without an invitation.

 

But, he reminded himself, he was here on a mission. He had, at some point, Lotty or no Lotty, to tell King Ricky this might be it, the last time they’d have the chance to meet up. Instead, he was reeling off and in danger of attracting unwanted attention.

 

“No garish clashes of style; no piles of the unwanted accoutrements often favoured by contemporary pubs - there’s no wailing over loud jukebox, pool table or rancorous television screen. Just a good old fashioned pub.”

 

“What about those fake barrels?” Lotty asked.

 

Brian stopped, his seven panelled pint pot arrested halfway up from the table.

 

“My word,” he said slowly. He was being called to task by a woman. Of course he loved women - especially those of a generous disposition. And especially those of a generous disposition in the seedier bars of Brussels and Ghent. He’d not seen the barrels before. Ever. And there was no question about it, they were fake and they were hideous.

 

“Looks like the people’s architect has been out architected,” King Ricky smiled.

 

Brian frowned. He’d been having a reasonable time in the pub. Drinking, just like in the old days. He’d let his recent fallow period of healthy dieting and carrying out the odd exercise here and there behind. In the months he had left he was determined to do what he wanted.

 

“You looking damned miserable boss,” King Ricky said after a silence in which Lotty had triumphantly sipped her yellow Lambrusco, dabbed her birdy mouth and excused herself to visit to the Ladies.

 

“Heh? Never felt better,” Brian countered.

 

Now was the time. Brian raised his glass again. “Funny,” he said, “you talking about the old days. I remember it so well; our first night here. You the only person for years to be able to drink me under the table -”

 

“ - in that corner over there - “

 

“ - that’s right, in that corner. But now Ricky. I wanted to tell you. I have to tell you. I wanted to wait, until - “

 

Ricky had been listening attentively, but it in a flash, his face opened into an exaggerated, rather stupid looking grin and he half rose out of his chair.

 

“Sweetheart! Why don’t you go up the bar and bring us all back a packet of crisps?”

 

Lotty was back and Brian’s resolve sank.

 

“Come on baby. Sashay your sweet tush the way you came; back past those fake beer barrels and go fetch some food honey.”

 

Finally, Brian thought as Lotty took the hint and a pound note King Ricky had produced and garishly waved under her nose.

 

Brian tried to compose himself. The alcohol had soaked his head. He needed to sober up, or drink through until he could articulate again. “She’s nice,” he managed, rather lamely.

 

“You think so?” King Ricky asked.

 

Brian suddenly felt every one of his fifty-one years. He’d become a drunkard, an out of work television presenter, an idle cultural critic and all round vaguely familiar presence in a well-tailored but dirty raincoat with a flat cap shoved in its pocket. He raised his eyebrows. An alarm bell rang in a foggy place in his cranium, telling him he needed to exercise some restraint.

 

King Ricky looked at him intently. “In case you’ve not guessed, she’s not my second cousin.”

 

Brian slowed himself down, afraid to react, afraid to break King Ricky’s gaze. Wondering what sort of response was needed. Of course she wasn’t his second cousin. Nothing could have been less obvious. And those fake barrels; had they been there all that time? Had they been there when they’d first met in 1972? Brian resisted the urge to look across. He felt he was struggling in an epic battle where the ground was treacle and where he was the snidey commentator against King Ricky’s bare-all, honest, look into your soul bluesman.

 

There can only be one winner. Brian was just about to concede and decide on which throwaway, fake compliment he could pay Lotty, or whether or not he could diplomatically concoct a line or two which would get him out of having to tell his oldest friend he didn’t much care for his latest squeeze - didn’t much care for her at all, in all honesty, with her plastered makeup and outrageous disregard for his expertise - when BANG!!, two bags of Smiths Crisps and some KP nuts landed on the table, shattering the moment.

 

“Here you go, you pair of miseries,” Lotty smiled.

 

Ricky was beaming again and moved up to let her sit down.

 

 

 

 

Brian didn’t stay much longer. He made his excuses, vaguely arranged another time to meet so he could try and tell King Ricky his news, immediately forgot the pub, the day, the time (there was little point), then drank up and found another pub in town - one they’d been to before and hadn’t favoured. A younger person’s pub. Brian sweat a hell of a lot and almost got into a fight.

 

 

 

 

Three days later, he was back home. A week after that, he was given the all-clear. He should have been jubilant, but wasn’t. Brian and his doctor both knew even if they weren’t saying. If, despite an ealier diagnosis Brian wasn’t afflicted by a terminal condition, his falling back off into the pernicious grip of drink more than blotted his copybook. Once again, he could take a solipsistic, deranged delight in his ranting cadaver act, drinking nonchalantly and quietly in lunchtime pubs then chasing demons more desperately at home, or he could sober up again. Neither option sounded appealing.

 

And it was in this semi-viscose condition that he read The Times’ announcement column one day and discovered the marriage, announced, between King Ricky and Lotty.

 

Brian raised an empty glass, stared at it and wondered which pub he should use to toast the happy couple.