After Hours - Chapter Two

‘There’s nothing suitable on our books at the moment.’ The porcelain doll behind the desk closed the file as she spoke. Her perfect face intrigued Max. She must have spent hours in front of the mirror this morning. Make up immaculate and not a blonde hair out of place. How did she do it? ‘We’ll keep you on file should something come in.’ She was out of her chair and walking away before Max had time to speak.
Oh well, I guess that’s it then, he got up with a deep sigh.
‘Thanks for nothing,’ he muttered to her empty chair, then turned and made his way back out into the busy street, scaring half a dozen pigeons making short work of a bread roll on the doorstep.
The West End seemed to be full of employment agencies, most of which had ‘nothing suitable at the moment’. He’d been out all day, and had tried dozens of agencies. Surely something will come of it. They’ve all got my details. Max dodged a group of oriental tourists armed with camcorders and guidebooks.
At least the weather was on his side. Unseasonably warm for April and there was hardly a cloud in the sky. The air was filled with a mixture of coffee and baking from the numerous cafes and bars which had thrown open their doors and hurriedly retrieved outdoor tables and chairs from their winter quarters. Max sauntered along the sunny side of the road. As he neared the only pub on Oxford Street the welcoming smell of beer and smoke from the extractor fans filled his nostrils.
Christ, I need a drink, he descended the steps to the underground. Won’t try any more today. Can’t take any more. The thought of the interrogation from Kate was the final straw. At least if he had a couple of pints before heading home he’d cope with it better. On autopilot he took the Central line to St Paul’s. Coming up onto Cheapside the bright sunlight was a stark contrast to yesterday’s downpour. Winding his way down Little Britain it seemed like any other day, just heading for a drink after work. If he could turn back the clock a couple of days, he would.
The door of the Red Lion swung open to reveal two customers and a very bored looking barman. Max threw his overcoat down on a barstool and promptly ironed numerous creases into it with his buttocks.
‘Good to see you Max,’ the barman reached for a pint glass and began to fill it with lager. ‘I was starting to lose the will to live,’ he laughed dryly.
‘Is it always so quiet this time of day?’
‘The graveyard shift. All the suits are back at work. Sorry mate, no offence intended,’ the pint was in Max’s hand. It felt deliciously cold and tasted like nectar as it slid down his throat.
‘S’okay,’ he slammed the empty glass back onto the bar, pushing it towards the pump for a refill. ‘I’m not a suit anymore. Lost my job yesterday.’ Max threw a note across the bar.
‘That’s too bad. You got something else lined up?’ the second pint was in front of him.
‘Not yet. I tell you Barry, I’ve been doing the agencies all day. Just about had enough. If I don’t find something definite by the end of the month I’ll be looking for somewhere else to live too.’
‘There’re looking for bar staff here if you’re really stuck,’ Barry slammed the till shut, and left him to serve some American tourists who had wandered in.
There are worse jobs. Kate does okay on it. No hassles, no 9-5. Max downed half his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Yeah, no free weekends either and no prospects. But look at Barry. He seems happy, and he’s earning enough to pay his way round Europe soon. What the hell are you thinking of? You don’t do bar work. You work in insurance. It’s slightly different!
Max looked around the bar. One elderly man sat nursing a half of beer in the corner, and a businessman sitting at the far end behind a newspaper. He could have been doing anything behind it, but Max gave him the benefit of the doubt. The Americans sat down next to the fruit machine and spread some postcards on the table. Sunlight through the many windows lit up the smoke that hovered in the air from the businessman’s cigar. He had never seen the Red Lion so empty.
‘What’s the plan then?’ Barry’s Irish lilt brought him back to reality.
‘A few more pints,’ Max fumbled in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes, which he threw on the bar while he retrieved his lighter.
The bar was quiet as Max drew heavily on his second cigarette of the day.

oOo

The evening paper had been full of telesales opportunities, and Kate’s questioning had gone on until late. Trust her to be on the wrong shift, Max had inwardly groaned as she settled herself across from him on the settee with a wine bottle and two glasses. By the end of the interrogation his head was buzzing and he was still no closer to getting another job despite all her bright ideas. Kate was under the unfortunate delusion that she held the key to everyone’s happiness. Perhaps it was her years behind the bar, acting as agony aunt to all and sundry. She meant well, but to a man on the edge, such as Max, she was no help at all.
Kate had lived in the house when Max called about the room a week into his previous job. They had hit it off straight away. Even while she was showing him round the small three-bedroom terrace in Bethnal Green, he had a feeling that they would become friends. He was right. Kate’s dry sense of humour was a real tonic, and they shared many happy hours over a drink while they cleared the Third World debt and re-populated the planet with extinct species.
At that time the third occupant was a young stockbroker with big ideas about his future. As it turned out his ideas became reality, and he left to work on the New York stock exchange within weeks of Max moving in.
He was quickly replaced by Steven, a nurse who worked at the Accident & Emergency department of St Bartholomew’s Hospital. Steven was a quiet soul, and tended to keep himself to himself. He worked various shifts, and when he was at home, spent a lot of time in his room. This was not a problem for Max. After all, two housemates with Kate’s lust for life would definitely have been too much.
‘Have you thought about a change of direction?’ Kate refilled his glass then emptied the bottle into her own.
‘And do what exactly?’ In his twenty-six years, Max had only ever known insurance, apart from his Saturday job on the market while he was at college.
‘I don’t know, but the world’s a big place. And it’s not as if you even like working in insurance. You’re always moaning about it.’
Right again, thought Max. But does anyone really enjoy the work they do? I mean actually look forward to getting up in the morning so they can get to the office and start work. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t suffer from Sunday evening blues and Friday afternoon fever.
‘But that doesn’t mean I’ll like a different job any more does it?’ Max pointed out. ‘Do you like your job?’
‘Yes. I do,’ She smiled. ‘It suits me, and that’s what you’ve got to do. Find something that suits you too.’
Kate leapt up from the settee, darted from the room and returned with the newspaper, which she spread out on the floor, open at the Situations Vacant section.
‘Right then,’ she pulled Max down next to her. ‘Close your eyes and pick a job.’ She put a pen in his hand. OK, humour her. Just this once. With a deep sigh Max brought the pen down onto the paper, and opened his eyes.
Kate was howling with laughter as she read:

Female Lavatory Attendant required. Central London, 5 days out of 7. No previous experience required as training will be given.

oOo

The following day was a carbon copy of the previous one. More agencies, more promises of work in the future. More trudging around the streets of London. By late afternoon Max found himself drawn, as if by magic, to the Red Lion.
John, the manager was showing a new barmaid the ropes as Max climbed onto a barstool.
‘Here’s your first customer. Usual Max?’
Max nodded as John reached up for a pint glass and indicated the lager pump.
‘Let’s see how you do.’ The glass trembled in her hand as it filled, and finally reached the bar mat in front of him, which promptly soaked up the overspill.
‘Not bad,’ John watched while it settled, and then topped it up, to Max’s relief.
Max paid and received the right change after three attempts, then drifted off with his thoughts while the barmaid’s lessons continued.
The door slammed behind him and he was aware someone was standing next to him at the bar.
‘Hi Max. Any luck today?’ Barry pulled off his rucksack and let it fall to the floor.
‘Nothing,’ he was glad to have some company. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Sure, I’ll have a pint,’ Barry grinned over the bar at John. ‘Another lamb to the slaughter eh? Don’t worry, you’ll soon get the hang of it. If I can, anyone can!’
The girl blushed and went on serving the group of suits who were making it very plain they could do the job better themselves.
After supervising the pulling of their drinks, John came round the bar with a half of beer and pulled up a third barstool, leaving his new barmaid frantically cleaning the glass shelves. She moved each glass as if it was made of crystal, keeping one eye on the door for the coach party that was bound to arrive at any minute.
‘So, Barry tells me you’re looking for work.’ John had a strong northeastern accent; he was from Sunderland, or rather the City of Sunderland, as he insisted it should be called.
‘Yeah. I’m getting pretty desperate. Only been a couple of days, but there’s nothing doing,’ Max drained his first pint and began to dread all that was involved in getting another.
‘Shame. We’ve been looking for someone for a good couple of weeks,’ John said. ‘Until we got Sandra here. It would have done you until you could find something else.’
Max had known John and Helen for ten months, since taking over as managers of the Red Lion. As a regular he had come to know them well, even participating in a few riotous lock-ins which resulted in the worst hangovers of his life. Being a regular was one thing, but actually working there would be a totally different story.
‘I’d probably have drunk all the profits anyway,’ Max tried to attract Sandra’s attention by waving his empty glass. Bingo! There is life after all. The golden liquid forced the froth up and out of the glass where it was collected by an already dangerously full drip tray.
‘No drinking behind the bar,’ Barry said. ‘Rules of the house.’ He grinned at John ‘Shame really, but it probably helps my wages at the end of the week.’
The door slammed behind them again, and a familiar voice called out
‘Max! I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on.’
‘Tim. How’re you doing? How’s the world of insurance?’ Max turned and faked a smile.
He’d met Tim on his first day with the company, when there had been no Glenda to keep the peace, so there were just the two of them in the office. Max had struggled to get to grips with company practice in the early days, and rather than the help he had hoped to get from Tim, all he got was sarcasm and witticisms. He didn’t think Tim meant to be unhelpful or unkind, it was just his way. There was never a straight answer to a question, just the usual feeble attempts at wit. Max was sure he would have made a good politician, and was very glad when Glenda was transferred from next door to act as a go-between.
The thing was, Max had had to put up with Tim while he worked with him, but now that was not the case, there was nothing to stop him telling Tim where to go.
‘Good to see you. Pull up a pew,’ he found himself saying. Idiot! You bloody idiot. You finally get your chance to tell him what a giant pain in the arse he is, and you offer him a seat. Why not buy him a drink as well?
‘A pint is it?’ Max heard himself asking. It just gets better. Next you’ll be asking him to move in with you.
‘Shouldn’t I be buying you one? After all you’re the one without a job,’ Tim smirked.
God, I’d love to wipe that smirk off your face, you supercilious bastard.
‘I’m not on the bread line yet. I think I can just about get a drink in,’ Max muttered, and tried to attract Sandra’s attention.

oOo

The drink with Tim left Max with pent up anger, and no form of release. His inner voice had told him to lamp him one after he had been subjected to an hour and a half of Tim blowing his own trumpet and giving Max ‘tips for the his future career.’ But the real Max wasn’t like that, he had never hit anyone in his life, except in the playground.
In the end, after Tim had gone to catch his train with a parting, ‘Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow. Oh but that won’t make any difference to you will it?’ Max sat miserably at the bar on his own. Barry had gone upstairs to the room that went with the job, and Sandra had continued to serve him sloppy pints. The bar mat in front of him would probably have yielded a further pint.
By nine o’clock he decided it was time to go home. He mumbled a farewell to Sandra and staggered through the bar, bouncing off several other customers en route. The journey home was relatively uneventful, and he crashed through the front door just after 9.30.
The fridge revealed a neat row of lager cans, one of which Max grabbed, causing a fatal accident in which Kate’s cream cake on the shelf below was the main casualty. Hiding it behind a wilted lettuce and something unidentifiable wrapped in cling film, Max went to vegetate in front of the television.