said he was used to abuse on the streets.
‘ “Milk that cow!” Aubrey shouted from the stilts, and then the back kicked the bucket away and the front did the little dance that had them in stitches. Harry Sunders was the best back in the business. Clowny took the front, and those two always had strong beer in the cow. A couple of Stingos in their pockets and sometimes they spilt it. Brought the house down when the Stingo dribbled out. They’d be prancing about, not knowing they was leaving little pools.’
‘Yes,’ Albert says. Everything is on the tray now. He tidies the bed, gathering up pages of the local newspaper and a magazine, listening to further tales while he does so. When there’s a pause he says:
‘You know you can be in the Salvation Army without musical knowledge, Mrs Biddle?’
Mrs Biddle sniffs. Peculiar in this day and age, the Salvationists. Grown men and women with their tambourines. Dismissively, she shakes her head. She could do without the Salvationists this morning.
‘You hear of Joseph of Arimathea, Mrs Biddle?’
Mrs Biddle doesn’t know if she has heard of Joseph of Arimathea or not. There was Joseph and Dan Saul, kept a greengrocer’s, Jewish boys. The father was a Joseph, too. The family moved up West, Dan Saul went into jewellery. Flashy he always was.
‘Time of Jesus, Joseph of Arimathea. He took the body. There was another bloke come down out of a tree and carries the Cross. The time the Army was preaching I went up to them and asked the one with the glasses how they’re spelling Arimathea.’
Albert spells it now. Arimathea was a place, he explains, a desert locality, not so much as a bush to shade the ground. No water, nothing. Put seeds down and they wouldn’t grow.
You can’t live without water, Mrs Biddle tetchily agrees, anyone living there should have moved away. Street preachers will tell you anything, Adam and Eve, feed the multitude with a fish. ‘Anything comes into their heads and then they get the tambourines out.’
‘They didn’t have no tambourines the day I asked the man, Mrs Biddle. In their lunch hour it was.’
‘Same difference to me, Albert. All that about a burning bush, all that about a star. They lull you with the music.’
Albert doesn’t protest further. He collects a cup and saucer he hasn’t noticed on the window-ledge. Mrs Biddle says there’s trouble with the Lottery.
‘Some man strung himself up. Win the Lottery and it’s the end of you, the new thing is.’
Albert asks about that, picking up the tray. It could be you have to pay for the uniform. Stands to reason, the Army couldn’t go handing out clothes. Albert understands that, but doesn’t say so now because her attention wanders whenever he mentions the Army – the way it does when he says SAS or Air India has just gone over, or when he tries to tell her about Joey Ells. The time he told her about scratching his initials on the brick under the windowsill at the Morning Star she fell asleep.
‘A couple of thousand you’d get in the Irish Sweep. Enough for anyone.’
‘’Course it is, Mrs Biddle.’
Twice he put his initials there,
A. L
., and the year,
1983
. It was Mrs Hoates who told him his other name was Luffe, something he hadn’t known. She’d chosen Luffe because it suited him, she said. Albert Luffe. She spelt it for him when he asked and he wrote it down.
‘Get us a curry later on, Albert? Something from Ishi Baba’s?’
Albert holds the tray with one hand while he opens the door. No problem about a curry. He’ll have a sleep and then he’ll see what’s on offer.
‘You know what I’d like, Albert?’
‘What’s that then?’
‘You make me a jelly, Albert? You make me a jelly and put it in the ice compartment for tonight?’
He nods, and Mrs Biddle declares that with a jelly to look forward to she’ll get up. She’ll get up and she’ll catch the afternoon sun by the window. Then there’ll maybe be something on the TV. A load of
‘ “Milk that cow!” Aubrey shouted from the stilts, and then the back kicked the bucket away and the front did the little dance that had them in stitches. Harry Sunders was the best back in the business. Clowny took the front, and those two always had strong beer in the cow. A couple of Stingos in their pockets and sometimes they spilt it. Brought the house down when the Stingo dribbled out. They’d be prancing about, not knowing they was leaving little pools.’
‘Yes,’ Albert says. Everything is on the tray now. He tidies the bed, gathering up pages of the local newspaper and a magazine, listening to further tales while he does so. When there’s a pause he says:
‘You know you can be in the Salvation Army without musical knowledge, Mrs Biddle?’
Mrs Biddle sniffs. Peculiar in this day and age, the Salvationists. Grown men and women with their tambourines. Dismissively, she shakes her head. She could do without the Salvationists this morning.
‘You hear of Joseph of Arimathea, Mrs Biddle?’
Mrs Biddle doesn’t know if she has heard of Joseph of Arimathea or not. There was Joseph and Dan Saul, kept a greengrocer’s, Jewish boys. The father was a Joseph, too. The family moved up West, Dan Saul went into jewellery. Flashy he always was.
‘Time of Jesus, Joseph of Arimathea. He took the body. There was another bloke come down out of a tree and carries the Cross. The time the Army was preaching I went up to them and asked the one with the glasses how they’re spelling Arimathea.’
Albert spells it now. Arimathea was a place, he explains, a desert locality, not so much as a bush to shade the ground. No water, nothing. Put seeds down and they wouldn’t grow.
You can’t live without water, Mrs Biddle tetchily agrees, anyone living there should have moved away. Street preachers will tell you anything, Adam and Eve, feed the multitude with a fish. ‘Anything comes into their heads and then they get the tambourines out.’
‘They didn’t have no tambourines the day I asked the man, Mrs Biddle. In their lunch hour it was.’
‘Same difference to me, Albert. All that about a burning bush, all that about a star. They lull you with the music.’
Albert doesn’t protest further. He collects a cup and saucer he hasn’t noticed on the window-ledge. Mrs Biddle says there’s trouble with the Lottery.
‘Some man strung himself up. Win the Lottery and it’s the end of you, the new thing is.’
Albert asks about that, picking up the tray. It could be you have to pay for the uniform. Stands to reason, the Army couldn’t go handing out clothes. Albert understands that, but doesn’t say so now because her attention wanders whenever he mentions the Army – the way it does when he says SAS or Air India has just gone over, or when he tries to tell her about Joey Ells. The time he told her about scratching his initials on the brick under the windowsill at the Morning Star she fell asleep.
‘A couple of thousand you’d get in the Irish Sweep. Enough for anyone.’
‘’Course it is, Mrs Biddle.’
Twice he put his initials there,
A. L
., and the year,
1983
. It was Mrs Hoates who told him his other name was Luffe, something he hadn’t known. She’d chosen Luffe because it suited him, she said. Albert Luffe. She spelt it for him when he asked and he wrote it down.
‘Get us a curry later on, Albert? Something from Ishi Baba’s?’
Albert holds the tray with one hand while he opens the door. No problem about a curry. He’ll have a sleep and then he’ll see what’s on offer.
‘You know what I’d like, Albert?’
‘What’s that then?’
‘You make me a jelly, Albert? You make me a jelly and put it in the ice compartment for tonight?’
He nods, and Mrs Biddle declares that with a jelly to look forward to she’ll get up. She’ll get up and she’ll catch the afternoon sun by the window. Then there’ll maybe be something on the TV. A load of
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