Scrap CH THREE part 46

Scrap CH THREE part 46
The pals have hardly seen each other the past two weeks with so much frantic activity going on around the new haulage business, so they are happy when another Saturday evening arrives and they can escape for a bit of R & R at the Bay. They haven’t been up there since Frank’s heart scare and are a little surprised at how empty the vast room is at 9pm. They settle on bar stools and order their usual pints of bitter. ‘Where is everyone tonight?’ Asks Frank of the new barman, a twenty something with floppy blond hair and big teeth. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he replies without looking up from his task of pouring a pint, ‘I only started a week ago and it was dead quiet last Saturday as well. It’s not usually like this then?’ The pals confirm that it is not usually this quiet; hoping for further information but the barman gives them their change and saunters to the other end of the bar to serve someone else.
Beanpole Brett swaggers in with his painted lady, her straw-like hair piled on top of her head in a froth of tight curls, a wisp carefully plastered to her left temple. As he makes a bee-line for the pals Lesley is towed along reluctantly in his wake and puts on a false smile as they exchange frosty greetings. ‘This place is going downhill,’ observes the oily thin man, ‘I haven’t been up here for a few weeks, since Vernon had that crash.’ Scotty says that they haven’t either and if the company doesn’t soon liven up they won’t be stopping. Beanpole chooses to ignore his remark, orders and pays for his drinks and sit uncomfortably close, with his girlfriend on the outside of the group where she sits like an angry doll on a shelf, a blank expression on her pancake face.
As the regulars start drifting in the room seems less cold, Vernon appears, rather the worse for wear, fixes a cheery smile and lurches up to the microphone to greet his customers and announce the arrival of this evening’s turn, a band consisting of four girls. This information seems to garner some interest and as the girls file out from the ‘dressing room’ (ladies toilets) a warm round of applause greets them.
The short plump girl eases herself into position behind her rather smart Premier drum kit, the one with the short dark hair picks up a bass guitar and plugs it into the speaker, the rhythm player does likewise and the best looking one, with long straight blonde hair steps in front of the mike to introduce the band. They start their set with a lively Dusty Springfield number and follow it with a variety of ballads, rock favourites and pop songs from the current charts. After each song the crowd applaud enthusiastically and the atmosphere turns from icy indifference to buzzing bonhomie as the evening progresses.
During the break Frank and Scotty take their fifth pints out to the garden for some fresh air. The cold breeze brings goose bumps to their arms so they duck back into the porch for shelter. ‘That could be your Heather in a few years’ time,’ says Frank, ‘I’ve heard her practicing on her guitar and she’s rather good.’ Scotty gives him a pained look; ‘not if she’s playing the same tune over and over again,’ he grumbles, ‘and now Jamie has decided to join his school orchestra and they’ve given him a tuba, of all things. Bloody thing is enormous but he said it was the only instrument left by the time he got to the front of the queue and he can coax a few notes out of it so he’s happy. I don’t think Dawn is so keen, or the old git who lives next door: it sets his dog off yapping and he has to let it in to keep it quiet. Miserable sod, just because he doesn’t have any kids he seems to think nobody else should.’
Ken Chapman hoves into view in the doorway, smoking a Havana cigar and holding a large glass of whisky in his free hand; ‘what ho lads, what are you two whispering about?’ Frank glances over his shoulder, takes a swig from his beer glass and gives his former boss a cold stare. ‘Just minding our own business,’ he replies, ‘what’s it to you anyway?’ Chapman shrugs his shoulders and turns away, sent off with a flea in his ear. ‘I can stomach people who bend the law a bit but I won’t have any truck with drug dealers,’ adds the big man. ‘Me neither,’ agrees Scotty, ‘pedlars of death the lot of them; how would they like it if their kids were hooked on the things?’
The band has started up again and the crowd has swelled, making it impossible to find a seat. The pals finish their drinks and slip out the side door to get away. They will finish the evening with their usual blow-out at the Golden Lion a little earlier than usual.
Ken is bored trying to make conversation with his other half and surprises himself by inviting Beanpole and his lady to sit with them. They shuffle up the rexine covered bench to make room and the girls fall into conversation. The men sit quietly enjoying the music, finish their drinks then go to the bar for more, leaving the women to keep their seats. ‘I saw Fat Frank and Jim Stewart earlier,’ says Beanpole, ‘they weren’t in a talkative mood. They seem to have put themselves above everyone else since they started up on their own.’ Ken pays for the round and carries the laden tray back to the table. ‘They blanked me as well,’ he says, ‘but it’s no skin off my nose. They think they can make a better living than working for me so let them have a go. They’ll soon see it’s not as easy as they thought, but then I suppose with that Bettina and young Jason doing all the organizing all they have to do is drive the trucks and we know they can manage that well enough.’
The opening chords of ‘Hey Jude’ punctuate the conversation and everyone joins in with the chorus as the band plays it over and over as their final number. They eventually say goodnight and the blond barman lends a hand to dismantle their gear, a jealous Vernon looking on from behind the bar where he has just called last orders. ‘Best be on our way then,’ Ken says, ‘we’re going on to the new nightclub for supper,’ he adds, ‘you can join us if you like. The ladies seem to be getting on alright and it leaves us free to talk man to man.’ Beanpole has no intention of speaking man to man with Ken Chapman; he says they already have plans and shakes the man’s hand before urging Lesley to finish her drink and follow him back to the car.
‘This isn’t the way to the night club,’ moans Lesley as Beanpole turns the car towards home, ‘I thought we were going for some supper?’ The car stops outside the fish and chip shop, where the last stragglers are waiting for their orders. ‘Change of plan,’ says Brett as he shuts the car door, leaving the lady all dressed up and nowhere to go. Also she will soon be stinking of fried fish, to add insult to injury, but Beanpole Brett does not forget his roots; he hadn’t wanted to go to the poncy night club in the first place and now Ken is going his mind is made up, so cod and chips twice it is.