The raining of the waning night

The thought came in the house, after a couple of beers. It was a slow jazz composition, for vocalist, piano, drums, double bass, and flute. The song began with the piano soloing, for a few bars when the bass and drums blended in. then, the flute entered, and finally the singer. This song required a female vocalist, someone with a warm, non-strident voice. Not only the words and music had to come out, the emotion too. It was important to him. The drums added a regular rhythm, pushing the work along. He used the word drums guardedly. He was always reluctant to call a jazzman a drummer; percussionist was a far better word, he thought. Jazz, to him, was percussion rather than just drumming. Any fool could beat the living daylights out of a set of drums. Many had done so. But jazz needed virtuosity, the gentle subtle touch. You knew the drums were there but you didn’t notice them. He thought of the George Shearing quintet, and their way of playing; it was smooth, sophisticated, and very fine playing, real musicians who knew what they were doing. The percussion, as in an orchestra, added colour and mood to a piece, which a drummer didn’t. He thought of most of the music you could hear now. You didn’t need to kill the instrument or go prematurely deaf when playing. They were unaware of the nuance of rhythm. You just had to listen to anything commercial, and compare that with the playing of someone like Armando Perrazza. Now that was a real class act.

He came back to the song. It was in C, not the most imaginative of keys, but it was what he wanted, in 4/4 time, a slightly warmed-up andante, the type of tempo that would go down well in a plush bar late at night, when patrons wanted to talk in a cultivated way, and listen with interest at the same time. It gave the atmosphere that he was looking for. You had the group on the stage, in intimate ambience with the well-dressed audience, the kind of people who appreciated good food, drink, company and of course music., and some of them were very knowledgeable too. It wasn’t the type of place with cheap champagne and packet peanuts, and waitresses with smart dresses but wearing boots. No, in this place, the two young womengi were dressed in the right way, uniform clothes, and shoes to match. The barman knew how to mix, and there were no slot machines. The tables and chairs were bamboo, a reflection of the nostalgia of the owner, Henry. He had come here from Singapore, where his father had run a similar place for thirty or so years. The bamboo was a light yellow-brown giving the lounge a warm, airy tropical feel. The parquet floor was ochre, and on the walls were old black and white photographs of a Southeast Asia that had all but disappeared, thanks to industrialisation and modernisation. There were old wooden houses on stilts, trishaws, women holding oilpaper umbrellas, uncongested city centres, and the waterfront, where people from all over the world had come and mixed together. Along the main wall was the bar, with high stools. To the right, the small stage for the group.
At the rear was a small room; to call it a restaurant would be incorrect, although this is what it was. It was tiny, barely enough room to walk in and out. There were ten tables, half with four chairs, and half with two. It was a perfect setting for two people in love. The area had an obstructed view off the bandstand, with the connecting wall between it and the piano, but nonetheless, a pleasant spot for those who wanted a meal with their jazz. You could hear just fine. Henry’s brother did the cooking.
Everyone knew him as Chop-chop, but that wasn’t his real name. He cooked a limited array of food; in fact, there were just two. There were the traditional British fish and chips, although this was way removed from the typical fish and chip bar of a town. He cooked a whale-size chunk of fish in batter, with irregular chips he cut by hand from garden potatoes, and a rich, exciting mélange of raw vegetables, like a salad, but it didn’t look like a typical one. You ordered the items you wanted, and he would chop and mix them up for you, but in a different way each time. On the top, he sprinkled small nuts, sunflower seeds, and pepper. He might cut it small, in matchstick like size, or you might get squares or rectangles. You just didn’t know. He made his own dressing with oil and lemon, and you dipped in if you wanted too. The other offering was Alaskan crab from the Barents Straits. This was expensive, but the customers - he thought of them as regulars, almost associates - were happy enough to pay. They had the money, and they knew the quality. Alaska crab was supposed to be the finest in the world. The eaters here seemed to agree.

He came back to the song. The piano began the melody, taken up in a haunting manner by a low flute. Nothing strident, and typically flute, just, at first, the first octave and a half. It was warm, sensual, and sensuous music. The bass built a thick foundation and the percussionist used the wire brushes in a warm sensual way. The woman began to sing;

The raindrops that fall in the light of the night

The group played on for a few bars after each line.

are like the tears of love when the autumn kicks in.
to a woman, the words and tune, they’re sunset bright
to let a late night loving come, place a bet, and we will win.

The flute took over, the cymbals went a little quiet, and the people watched. A man put his arm around the woman’s shoulder. Almost all the people there were touching, or holding, or near each other. The two waitresses waited in circumspect way, enjoying the song. No one ordered anything; they were too engrossed with the quintet. The barman polished glass after glass, but at the same time, watching the group. A man and a woman got up, and began to dance a couple of metres from the group.
The singer began the second part.

The trees and the flowers might sway in the night air

The bass plucked a gentle train of ascending arpeggios.

but I only want to be in motion with you, this time when I
know you gaze at the early morning legs, you touch my hair
to watch the morning change, and the rain of the waning night go by.

He wondered what Mortimer Adler would have made of this. Was it culturally rich enough?
Was it scholarship? Was it one of the top hundred songs of all time? The song ended with a whispering roll. The people in the bar applauded warmly, and the singer, a white woman in her forties with golden hair, bowed, and then turned to acknowledge the other members of the group. High heels augmented her good legs, indeed, her figure in general. The applause faded away, and they began another song. This one was a little faster, with the bass player, a short white man, going bald, working a regular four-crotchet rhythm, with the percussionist colouring in the enhancement. He was an Asian man with a perpetual look of pleasure; it was quite clear he enjoyed his work. Well, they all did. The pianist was a mixed race man; someone said he was from Cuba, someone else said Guatemala. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was a first-rate musician, the piano turning out the melody and chords without any apparent effort. The flautist was a Filipina woman in her late twenties. She had long light brown hair, and her evening dress of a soft green contrasted well with the lounge suits and bow ties of the three men. She had a bracelet on both wrists. They changed position depending on the angle of the flute. Her dress was split at the side, in the style of a cheongsam, showing her calf. There were about fifty people in the bar that night. It was a Monday, and at 9pm, that wasn’t too bad. There would be others later. It was a popular place. The décor was old fashioned, and the lighting bright enough to see each other, but not too bright to take away the romance. When people said they were going down Henry’s Quay, everyone knew they would have a good night out. They also knew it wasn’t Henry’s Quay. Its real name was The Cockatoo, but no one used it. A tourist once asked people the way to The Cockatoo. No one knew what he was talking about, until he mentioned the owner was someone called Henry, and that jazz was played there.

Out at the front of the lounge, overlooking the harbour, a gentle rain was beginning to cool the warm night air. A yellow taxi went by. A puff of smoke came from the window. On the water, the yachts went with the motion of the sea. On some of them, you could see groups of people sitting under the cabin light, drinking, and laughing, and having a good time. It was that kind of place, easygoing, open, gracious, and welcoming all rolled into one. It had class, but it was the relaxing type.
Back in the lounge, the music had stopped, and the band was taking a drink at the bar. There was the merging of people, the low murmurings of those brave to talk out loud in a public place. The eating area was packed like sardines, as usual. One idiot customer, an Oriental, had finished eating, and in a loud, laughing way, had told the others at the table, and the rest of the assembled eaters too - he couldn’t fail to, the area being so small - that when he was trying once to catch lobster, he had fallen out of the boat. For some reason, he thought this amusing. The rest of the people there half-laughed, but it was probably at him, rather than because of the incident.
Henry would wander round from time to time, sometimes stopping for a chat, or sometimes helping behind the bar or bringing the drinks, if the two girls were stretched on a full night.
It was a place to relax with good food, music, and company. The group began to play again, a beautiful slow number, ‘When April comes again.’ Around one of the glass-top circular tables, three men and a young woman were talking quietly. Next to them, an elderly couple were watching the others in the lounge. Now and then, one would lean forward and talk to the other. There were about fifteen of these tables, the attendant armchairs with bamboo motif on the cushions. Henry used to change them according to season. Now, in the summer, they were a light beige and green. In the winter, he put on a warmer brown and orange. Two young men in tee shirts and jeans walked in, and went to one of the tables near the group. One of the girls walked over.

‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

‘Hi, chica.’

She stiffened. She didn’t like being called chica by anyone. She knew by the accent that he wasn’t from here. And people here didn’t greet others with ‘Hi’, either.

‘Two beers.’

She looked at them. ‘Please’ would be nice. The people who came in here said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ as a matter of course. The man took the pause to mean she hadn’t understood him.

‘Two beers.’

There was still no ‘please’. She was right. He was, or maybe they both were, English.

‘We don't serve people dressed the way you are'. .She pointed at the small sign on the wall near the entrance. The man got up and walked over.

‘Dress. Smart casual.’ The man swore quietly, and went back to the table.

‘What’s up?’ the other asked. The first man told him. The second man got up, and they both walked to the door.

‘Bye, chicos,’ she said.

The couple at the next table began to laugh. The man, who was big, was the local butcher. He had a droopy moustache. His wife, who in contrast was a slim thing, worked as a receptionist in one of the numerous hotels here. She gently slapped the girl on the arm. ‘Maria!’ and began to laugh again. Two members of the Police came in. They both wore the long leather boots of the motorcycle patrol. They walked over to the bar, but didn’t sit down. People there knew why. They were glad to stretch their legs a bit.

‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ the barman said. ‘Two cups of tea, please.’ ‘Right you are.’

He placed the two cups on the bar top, and pushed a bowl of sugar towards them.

‘Thank you.’

They drank their cup of tea , put some loose change on the bar, and turned and walked out, their boots resonating on the wooden floor. The barman put most of the cash into the till, and the tip into his waistcoat pocket. He had worked at Henry’s Quay for a number of years now. The clientele always found him to be pleasant and polite, a nice chap.

The thought came in the house, after a couple of beers. It was a slow jazz composition, for vocalist, piano, drums, double bass, and flute. The song began with the piano soloing, for a few bars when the bass and drums blended in. then, the flute entered, and finally the singer. This song required a female vocalist, someone with a warm, non-strident voice. Not only the words and music had to come out, the emotion too. It was important to him.


© Richard Homer 2008

Ban the time

The pub they were in was nothing that remarkable; it was typical of many a pub one would find anywhere in Britain, anywhere that is, near the port. The smoke brushed cream walls, the wooden tables and chairs with their brown leather centres, the long bar with the gleaming pipes, the clientele, were to be found in many places. But tonight, in many places, things were about to change…for the worse. One might guess with a good degree of accuracy that the same talk was being carried out, throughout the whole country; or what was left of it, many might argue. Twenty years of chronically bad government had meant a high rate of unemployment, social malaise, poverty not seen here since the pre war days, and a population that had seen its rights go through the window of the fight against terrorism. The cynical referred to it as the fight against our freedom; there was, in many people’s minds, precious little of that left now. Cameras were on every street corner; smoking in public places was banned; the right to trial by jury was a thing of the past, and the crackdown on gun ownership meant that violent crime in the urban areas had, rather than drop, skyrocketed out of all proportion. Many parts of the capital and the large cities, indeed even some of the towns, were in practice, no go areas; the police had long ago thrown away any responsibility for them. Once a proud part of the country’s heritage, respected and, in parts, liked by the population, they had degenerated into an authoritarian armed paramilitary body, disliked, not trusted, and held in total lack of respect.

The two old men were playing draughts in the corner of the pub, by the window. It looked out over the port; the water by the quay was just the road width away. The smell of the sea and the sound of the seagulls accompanied the laughter, the chatter and the aroma of beer in the pub; tonight, though, was an exception; there was little chatter, and even less laughter. The two old men came here almost every night of the year, barring sickness. They were both pipe smokers, in contrast to the rest who seemed to be an 80-20 split between smokers and non-smokers. They paused from time to time, taking a quiet puff or a discreet sip of their pints. To be able to smoke in the pub was a thing of the past; tonight, though, no one cared. Those that wanted to light up did so, those that didn’t told them; ‘Go, enjoy, tonight I don’t care’, or words to that effect. The two old men pulled on their pipes, enjoying the relaxing effect. They muttered something to each other from time to time. The quiet air meant that you could hear the click of the draughts piece on the board; if you listened with care, you might hear the almost silent, warm sigh of pleasure of having captured the opponents piece. On the next table were two middle aged couple, the men with beers, one woman with what appeared to be a glass of lager, and the other, a gin and tonic. One assumed this from the lemon on the rim. They were laughing and talking, although in a muted way. The laughter was almost forced; it didn’t sound genuine. The men wore tweed jackets and ties; the women both had a blouse top and a knee length skirt. Behind them, over the back of the chair, were their raincoats.
One of the men asked the other,

‘Can the government really do this? Can they really enforce a ban?’

The other responded, ‘I don’t know. I think myself they will do it. They’ve already enforced other unpopular laws.’

The first man said, ‘Would you like another?’

‘Yes, please; the same.’

He handed over his glass, and the second man got up. He turned to the women and said.

‘You two want another shot?’

‘No, thanks,’ they answered, almost in chorus.

He went off to the bar. The two old men continued with their game of draughts.

‘Are you alright?’ asked one.

‘Yes,’ answered the other. They continued with their game.

In the other corner a group of quite young people were trying to enjoy the evening. Two were men, three of them women. They looked like students, but these days, one couldn’t be sure. Having opened up the university sector to everyone in the population, one might argue, with some degree of accuracy, that almost everyone in the country was a student now. The government had boasted in arrogant fashion some years before of the number of graduates produced every year. There were those, both in the country and overseas, who had sneered at the figures, thinking they were inflated, that so many degrees meant that not all could be worth something. The observant ones, however, noticed the government used the word 'producecd' in regard to education. That summed it up for many people; education had become a form of factory farming, with a product at the end of the line, rather than a whole person ready to take part in some useful activity for mankind, a person able to, and wanting to make a contribution to their part of society. The rot, in many thinking people’s minds, had begun with the awarding of degrees and diplomas by companies.

The initial reaction was one of amusement; it tuned in no time, to one of contempt. The main stream universities had found themselves cut out of part of the action; people now wanted a company degree; they were guaranteed a job with the firm afterwards. Who could blame them? The companies had a point; most university teaching was irrelevant to the needs of modern business. Now, the universities found that they were losing customers; this had led to a cut back in courses and of course, in staff. They had increased their fees, meaning that the average university was for someone from a rich background; and so the cycle went on. The end result was a country where one in three of the population had a degree; of these, 85% had a degree that was, in reality, of little practical value, and even less intellectual worth. But no matter; we still had the highest number of graduates per population of any country in the world. Hurrah; the fact that almost no overseas students came here any longer was forgotten, not mentioned in the newspapers. The unkind would argue that, even if the newspapers reported this fact, it would have made no difference, as half the population couldn’t read the newspaper in the first place. Be that as it may. The students, if they were, in the corner appeared to be having a modest time on the scale of happiness. The number of bottles on their table grew.

The main bar stretched the length of the room, some nine metres. There were always at least two full-time bar staff, sometimes as many as four of them, depending on the day of the week. There were eight dispensers, each of a different type of ale, cider, or stout. The fact that this bar had draught beers made it a magnet for the locals of the area. There was also an excellent selection of quality homemade fare, albeit of a limited variety. But, as regulars had mentioned ad infinitum, it was what they were used to, they wanted, and they enjoyed. The patron’s wife, a busty woman in her fifties, used the limited kitchen space to produce sandwiches, rolls, an all day breakfast, and for the adventurous, a simple, yet potent, curry and rice.

But it was the bread that well down well; it came from a well-known local bakery; some were soft, some crispy, and some had sesame seeds on them. Inside, you had a thick cut of meat, with a slice of tomato, cucumber, a ring of onion, a leaf of crisp lettuce, and sprinkle of garden herbs. The meat was the real thing, not something she had grabbed in the supermarket, and put in the microwave for a quarter of an hour. No, this was good meat from a quality butcher. The regulars didn’t mind the little extra they cost; they knew it was worth it. They were particular popular towards the end of the evening, when the alcohol began to work up the hunger buds in the stomach, mouth or brain, wherever they were. Tonight, however, was different. She had already prepared more than three times the usual amount.

Her years of business acumen in the pub trade had told her when was a good time, and tonight would be one of the peaks. It would also be the last of the peaks too, in this particular place. The landlord had made it clear; no beer, no here. He wasn’t going to belittle himself or his centuries old trade by pouring pints of soft drinks, no way.

‘They’re going like hot cakes tonight,’ she told her husband. ‘I’m not surprised on a night like this. Let them enjoy it.’

Her husband nodded in agreement.

‘Yep,’ he said, ‘the last round will be on the house, too.’

He put his arms around her, saw the tears in her eyes, and kissed her gently on the cheek.

’Bastards,’ he said under his breath. ‘Who do they think they are?’

She didn’t answer. She already knew. Along the bar was a line of stools, each occupied tonight; well, to be honest, they were taken on most nights. The bar staff here had a good reputation for being professional and courteous, but at the same time, ready to have a chat about almost any subject under the sun; it was a relaxing place to be in, nothing pretentious, nothing fake, nothing cheap. It enjoyed the name of a good place with genuine nice people in it. Here, the regulars would come to drink, talk, and joust and needle each other, in a gentle way. Empty peanut packets filled the ashtrays.

Tonight, the regulars were in fine form. The drinks flowed freely, and freely, in many cases, as each man or woman sought to out-buy the other. It was not a put-on show to claim attention, as happens in other parts of the world, but a genuine attempt to please each other.
Above the bar was a clock, a very old, crafted clock. It showed fifteen minutes to one am. The patron looked around the place was full to the brim now; it was packed like a tin of sardines.

‘At least they had oil,’ he thought to himself. ‘These, as from tomorrow, or later today, will have nothing.’

He sighed, and went back to taking orders.

‘Yes, last orders,’ he said, ‘and this time, they really mean it.’

The two old men finished their last game, and picked up their beer mugs.

‘Cheers,’ they said to each other and the room in general.

They finished their drinks, and hand on shoulder, walked to the bar, shook the patron’s hand, said goodnight, and then left. Over the next ten minutes, the others followed. The early banter and laughter seemed to have dissipated into the early spring air.

The two couples at the neighbouring table ordered another round. Quietly, they finished their drinks. They handed in their glasses to the patron. The number in the bar had thinned quite considerably by now. The front door opened, bringing with it a blast of chilly air. Two armed policemen in uniform entered. The pub went quiet.

‘Come on, please,’ the first said in an authoritarian tone.

‘It’s after one am;’ the other joined in, ‘you’ve had a long time tonight. Now it’s time to go.’

The patron rang the bell.

‘Time please, ladies and gentlemen, time please’.

There were only a handful of people in the bar now. One of these went up to the first policeman. He looked at him, the contempt clear.

‘You must feel pleased with yourself, yes?’

The policeman kept quiet.

‘Answer me, you bloody pig,’ the man shouted, and grabbed the policeman by the collar.

The others grabbed him, and tried to pull him off.

‘Just cool down,’ one of the others said. 'Get away from him, you fool,’ another muttered, ‘you know what they’re like and what they can do now.’

The policeman straightened his collar.

‘I’m only doing my job. You try that again and I’ll use the gun, I’m warning you.’

The second officer chimed in.

‘You watch yourself, boy. I can react in self-defence, that’s the law.’

‘Bugger the law. Who said we have to …’ the assailant trailed away.

‘I’m only doing my job, I’m only doing my job,’ mimicked another of the people. ‘It’s alright for you. You get well paid, and you have your own clubs where you can get it at a cheap price, too. What about the ordinary working man and woman? What do they do now?’

The second policeman laughed.

‘Join the police. But of course, you couldn’t, you don’t have the brains, you don’t have the ability. And turn the music off, too.’

He was almost shouting now.

The landlord walked to the stereo and switched it off. Another of the regulars launched in.

‘No, we don’t have the right morality, that’s why. We wouldn’t enforce unjust laws. You get paid three times the average wage in this country, plus who knows what perks that we aren’t allowed to read about. You are as bad as the journalists. It is one big secret club; the lawyers, the politicians, the press, and the police. You are all scum. You should hang when the revolution comes.’

The first policeman laughed, and poked the talker in the chest with his glove.

‘Yes, the revolution is coming, with what? With what, you tell me, Mr Intelligent, with what? How, where, why, with whom, you tell me. You can’t get publicity, you can’t assemble, your phones are monitored, you are watched by camera when you step out of the house to when you go back home, we know what you buy, where, the quantity, how often etc; you have no firearms; you’re just a big, bloody joke. The revolution is coming? I’ll know about it when I see it. Ha, the internet, well done the internet. ‘Oh, we’re free, we can post what we like, what we want, we’re free.’ Ha, little did you, and others around the world, think that the freedom was to be brief. People like you created it; we just use it. But we use it against you.’

The pub remained in silence. If the people wanted to speak their mind, their thoughts, they were keeping it hidden and quiet. The second policeman was looking around, and saw a plate of the last remaining rolls. He walked over to where the owner’s wife was watching, from behind the bar. He took off his glove, picked up a bun, and began to eat.

‘Nice’, he said between mouthfuls. He helped himself to another. The owner’s wife stood there and said nothing. The owner came over.

‘They’re one pound fifty. You owe me three pounds.’

The policeman picked up a pink tissue from the top of the bar, and wiped his mouth.

‘Okay, I’ll pop in tomorrow night,’ and began to laugh.

The first officer joined him, laughing too; they looked at each other, and the first one said

‘Come on, we have to check on the other pubs to make sure they are obeying the law. Rule Britannia, everyone.’

They walked over to the door and went out. The room was silent, the people morose and quiet. There were about ten of them. They looked at each other, then lowered their eyes, and sighed, as if in a chorus. One of them began picking up the few empty glasses on the tables; another man joined him, and one of the women went round collecting the beer mats. In a short time, the place was clean.

‘I’ll do that,’ said the landlord to the man who was sweeping the floor.

‘No. it’s okay, I’ll do it, I’m happy to help a bit.’

The landlord thanked him. In the corner, another regular was shutting the curtains. The landlord’s wife turned off the main lights. There was now just the soft pink glow of the three wall lights, and the counter light behind the bar. The owner stood near the bar, his arms folded. He leaned against the wall. The man finished sweeping the floor, and picked up what little rubbish there was.

‘Where do I put this?’

The owner’s wife showed him. The man doing the curtains came over and joined the group. A few of them pulled up a bar stool each, and got on. One man pulled a couple of chairs across from the nearest table. They were sitting around now, a group of ten people, in silence, in the soft light of a now-deserted pub. No one spoke. There was just the sound of breathing, the clock, and the scratching of a match or two a some of them lit up. The smoke curled up towards the top of the room. The owner switched off the counter light, and two of the wall lights. The place was, to anyone out in the street, empty. After a long time, one of the men spoke. He breathed out in a laboured, tired kind of way.

‘What’s going to happen to the pubs now? Are they just going to left empty? How many are there throughout Britain, ten thousand? Ten thousand pubs empty.’

A woman joined in.

‘I heard that some landlords will continue to run their place, but just sell soft drinks. I think that’s strange, don’t you? I mean, who on earth wants to go out at the weekend and sit round with a lemonade for half the night? I don’t.’

Another woman added, ‘Can you imagine going to a dance, and being offered a coke, orsomething like that? It makes a mockery of the whole thing about going out and enjoying yourself.’

There was a murmur of agreement.

‘You go out and they get you over the outdoor limit, and you get a hundred pound fine; the second time, it’s five hundred, and the third time you’re on home detention,’ another woman said, ‘ and the outdoor limit is one little drink, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ a man added, ‘about a half pint of weak ale, or a mini gin or rum. Who gets high on that? I don’t, I can’t.’

The government had introduced the new laws earlier in the year, and they were passed through Parliament with unheard of speed. The ostensible reason for the draconian measures was to stop youth, and others, binge drinking, but most of the population knew the real reason, or what they though was the real reason; that was to keep people off the streets in the evening, as part of the ongoing war against…well, against everything and everyone. The use of home detention in place of minimum security prisons was welcomed by the ‘civil liberties’ coalition, now in many people’s eyes, just another government front, packed with freeloaders and the toady group, ready to praise the introduction of health laws, security laws, prison reform, the usual things that had gone under the microscope at the end of the twentieth century…as long, of course, these measures didn’t affect them; of course. The measures were for public protection and social cohesion. After the disastrous social engineering project of the fifties onwards, the multicultural society, passport to people’s delight and pleasure, with the resulting race riots, ghetto building, the break down of law and order in many sink estates, the soaring drug problem, low educational attainment, and so on, it was little wonder that so many of the population had emigrated to what were far better places to live and raise a family, to work and to play. Many of those left were unable to go, either for financial reasons, or the lack of education and training qualifications, meaning they had no choice.

They knew this, and a kind of bond had formed between them. People now began to realise what they were up against, and why they were here, and a growing quasi underground movement had emerged, linked in large part by word of mouth. No one in their right mind would use the internet; that was the fast way to get your door whacked in the early hours of the morning; the initial reaction had of course targeted what most people would object to: child pornography, paedophilia, extremism in one form or another, chat rooms for young people organised by people who were anything but young, and had anything but children’s welfare on their mind, too. No one had objected to those being made a target; they had gotten massive support from the general populace whose main concern and puzzlement was why it had taken the government so long to do anything about them. The problem was one of escalation. having seen the reaction of the population to these measures, the government went at full speed in targeting anything they thought was, or might be, or even could be, a ‘social nuisance’. This quickly became a euphemism for just about anything. The prison planet, at least in the part of the world here, had become a tight, unforgiving reality. And the odd thing was, the whole business had crept upon the population almost by stealth, with few people giving it a thought, the majority accepting it, albeit in weary opinion.

The result was a government by a few, who knew they could do just about what they wanted, and now worked in this way. The slogan appeared to be ‘Bugger the people; we do it our way.’ Now, the final straw had taken effect; the abolition of an institution, a way of life for the ordinary man and woman of Britain for hundreds, maybe a thousand years, that gave them a simple yet enjoyable way of passing their free time in the warm summer evenings, watching the bowls or the tennis, sitting in the warm pm sunshine; or grouping round a blazing log fire, the horse brasses on the granite walls gleaming in the light in a cold and grey winter. It was true that the government had no plans…well, that’s a contradiction, because no one knew what the government were thinking; the less charitable, meaning ninety percent of the population, were of the opinion that the government didn’t think, they just began a programme of action, a sort of raffle.

‘What can we do this week?’

‘Oh, let’s increase the tax on hotel charges.’

‘Why?’

‘Why not?’

‘Excellent, I’ll inform the minister or someone else if the minister is on holiday in…you fill in the blank. The blank was always, it seemed, a foreign country, often one with a warm climate, a low cost of living, meaning the natives were paid little for their work in rather nice resorts. This was in the interest of value for money for the MPs, of course, who went there on ‘official government business’. The three day conference in the Gambia in December to explore the environmental impact of a resurgence of mosquitoes on childhood malaria was a pressing problem for that country; no one would argue against such a proposition. Quite how ten MPs from Britain, all of whom didn’t know where the Gambia was on a map, could benefit the country, theirs and ours, was not clear to the British people.

But they did report that the food, that is, the food in their hotel, was wonderful. The interior of the country was explored by the intrepid MPs using an air-conditioned boat, complete with supper buffet; the trip lasted half an hour. The buffet went on half the night, but ‘useful contacts were made, the British High Commission did a splendid job, magnificent’. The New Year’s Honours list featured a new knighthood for a diplomat no one had ever heard of; what a surprise.

The whole thing was indicative of a government without emotion or care, but with now almost ending power. Those brave enough to voice a conflicting opinion were imprisoned on some phoney charge…a danger to public security/health/education/themselves/the community…take your pick. The unlucky ones found themselves on the end of innuendo, often of an unpleasant sexual nature, and the mention of young children…well, you know the rest. The number of suicides increased, making Britain the third highest suicide nation on earth. The effect of these previous unblemished men and women now being hauled without mercy through the nails of the press hit their families hard, of course. They, through association, had become the guilty. The effects were a catastrophe for thousands out there.

The pub was quiet again. The people in there, the ordinary hardworking, decent men and women were reflecting on the changes to their once respected country; not always liked, it was true. No one would argue against that. It had a colonial history peppered with some untoward incidents, that was true. But, by and large, when the colonies had asked for independence, they got it, together with a functioning infrastructure, education and health care. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t a brutal legacy either. A man chipped in.

‘You notice the BBC and the others have increased the licensing fee and the ‘pay as you go’, ‘pay as you watch’, whatever it’s called these days, that business. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it? They know people will be forced to remain in the house, and that means people will turn to home entertainment. That means bigger money for the entertainment companies, oh, it’s one big con, the whole thing.’

There was another murmur of agreement from the listeners. There was now a mood of sullen acceptance.

‘The whole bloody county’s big con,’ responded one man.

The landlord walked behind the bar, and began to pull a number of half pints. ‘We’ll use these; if the bastards come back, we can finish them in no time. Ladies, you want the same or a short?’

There was some murmuring amongst the crowd as they thought about their choice. The landlady walked across to the curtains to check that they were shut tight. She then switched of the light behind the bar, and two of the wall lamps. The place was now, to anyone passing by, shut and the people gone home. That, of course, was the whole purpose. As if to reinforce the message, the landlord said,

‘Right, we keep it quiet; no raising the voice, no laughing, okay?’

There was a slight ripple of laughter; no one in their right mind found anything to laugh about.

‘Yeah, you know what I mean’.

One man sitting on a stool by the bar asked, ‘What going to happen to the police, then? They’re going to get their own bars in the Headquarters, or something?’

One of the men with a cigarette chipped in.

‘No, they’re not in the HQ. What they have done is to buy, at a cut-throat price of course, the pub favoured by the majority of their members…it’s like a bloody club now, isn’t it…the members of the police force in a particular area. It is then for their own use, and their guests.’

‘Who’ll be the local lawyers and the councillors, yes?’

A woman butted in, a look of annoyance clear.

‘Are you trying to tell me that the police are allowed to buy a pub, I mean, they can buy a physical pub, the building, and then use it like a club, but we have to drink in the house? Is that what this is, is that right?’

The others nodded in an unhealthy agreement. One man said, ‘Well, we’ve said it for years, haven’t we? There’s one rule for the rich and one rule for the poor. But I don’t think anyone thought it would ever come to this.’

‘They make me sick,’ the woman went on. ‘How can they do it, and how can we let them do this?’

‘They can do it because the government, bunch of grease proof bastards, make the law, and the law says they can buy a pub; there are plenty on the market. What landlord wants to keep an empty building with no customers?’

‘You’re right there,’ the landlady answered, ‘we might have to sell up and go somewhere else. I don’t know what we can do; we’ve done this throughout our working life, haven’t we, Andrew?’
She turned to her husband, who nodded in sad agreement.

‘You’re right, my love, you’re right.’

He sighed, and went back to polishing the glassware. The people in the pub watched him, knowing he was polishing just for something to do, to keep his mind off the night. He, and his wife too, had enjoyed a high degree of popularity throughout their time here; they had come about twenty years ago, when the place was run down and inhabited by the less than clean crowd who appeared to have no home to go to, but enough money to drink whilst not enough to buy soap and shampoo, or new clothing. They, the landlord and his wife Joyce, had turned the place around to become a well-known, popular establishment, where people from all walks of life, and a number of different races came to enjoy the evening, and on occasion, the lunchtime too. The fact that the crowd in here tonight was white, with no minority group, was a reflection of the condition of the country rather than the racial thinking of the clientele. Those members of different minorities, who had family elsewhere in the world, had taken advantage of this, and without much prompting, had emigrated. No one could blame them. Why remain here when you could get a better life overseas? It made sense. It was a phenomenon that the government were quick to play down, and after a few rather blazing headlines regarding the minority emigration, little was read in the press; it was embarrassing, for the very people that the governments over the past fifty years had sought to please and court their support, were the very same people who had left at the first opportunity. Many of the emigrants had expressed their emotions to the remaining population, and the most frequent quote was something like, ‘We feel sorry for you; we’re fortunate we have somewhere to go; take care,’ and off they went. Who could blame them? Most of the remaining population would be off if they could, but they couldn’t. They didn’t have the family connection, the money, and often the skill to get them up and running in a foreign land, although in many ways Britain, this place was foreign to them now. A woman spoke, as if to echo their thought. ‘It’s a foreign country now; our own place if foreign to us, the people. No one could imagine it coming to this, I don’t think’

A young man sitting at the edge of the group spoke for the first time. ‘I agree with the first part of what you said. I think everyone would. I would disagree with your second opinion. I read a lot on the internet, note the past tense, people, and there were writers who went on about things like this for a number of years. But nobody took any notice…no, let me rephrase that. Plenty of people took notice, but they were ignored by many. They were dismissed as cranks, and mocked in the media. The idea of Big Brother becoming a reality, well, they went on about it for a number of years, but they were either ignored, or in some cases, imprisoned. Another factor was the apathy of the people here. It is the ‘It can’t happen here, it’s Britain’ mentality. You think back to when they were going to issue identity cards. How many people said ‘I don’t care, I have nothing to hide.’ Then the fingerprinting of children, the DNA samples if you were caught bloody speeding, the medical records on computer, what a cock-up that has turned out to be. ‘No misuse, we promise you.’ How many records have gone missing, think of Newcastle those years ago, data discs etc, how many incorrectly stored, how many sent to the wrong address, how many have the wrong diagnosis because they’ve mixed with someone else of the same surname? No one now has a clue whether this record is the correct one. The last time I went to the doctor, oh, about a year ago when I hurt my back, the doctor looked at me and said ‘How was your last pregnancy?’ There was an outburst of half-laughter from the rest of the people.

‘I’m not joking,’ the young man continued. ‘That’s what the records showed. The doctor pointed to the section on the screen. It was there, as clear as can be. What a joke; what a bloody country.’ He stopped talking, and leaned back, his back against the radiator. He blinked. The others were not sure if it was the smoke, or whether he was beginning to cry.

He thought about the story; how am I going to continue from here...