eagerness.
‘I don’t want any money,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Helen said as if it was the last thing that a man with a coat tied with string and an empty ginger-wine bottle in his hand would want.
‘I just want you to go in there and get me another bottle. The bastards say they won’t serve me. They say I’m not to come into the shop. Now if I were to give you two pounds into your hand, then you could go in and get it for me.’
From his grizzled face with its wild hair above and its stubble below his small sharp eyes shone with the brilliance of the plan.
Helen bit her lower lip and looked at him hard. He was from Ireland of course, they all were, or else Scotland. The Welsh drunks seemed to stay in their valleys, and the English didn’t get drunk in such numbers or so publicly. It was a mystery.
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘How would you know whether I’ve had enough or not? That’s not what we were debating. That, as it happens, was not the point at issue.’
Helen was moved, he spoke so well, he had such phrases … the point at issue. How could a man who spoke like that have let himself go so far and turn into an outcast?
Immediately she felt guilty about the thought. That was the way Grandmother O’Hagan would talk. And Helen would immediately disagree with her. Here she was at twenty-one thinking almost the same thing.
‘It’s not good for you,’ she said, and added spiritedly, ‘I said I’d do you a favour, it’s not a favour giving you more alcohol, it’s a downright disservice.’
The drunk liked such niceties and definitions, he was ready to parry with her.
‘But there is no question of your
giving
me alcohol, my dear lady,’ he said triumphantly. ‘That was never part of our agreement. You are to act as my agent in purchasing the alcohol.’ He beamed at his victory.
‘No, it’s only going to kill you.’
‘I can easily get it elsewhere. I have two pounds and I will get it elsewhere. What we are now discussing is your word given and then broken. You said you would do me a favour, now you say you will not.’
Helen stormed into the small grocery-cum-off-licence.
‘A bottle of cider,’ she asked, eyes flashing.
‘What kind?’
‘I don’t know. Any kind. That one.’ She pointed to a fancy bottle. Outside, the drunk knocked on the window and shook his head of shaggy hair, trying to point to a different brand.
‘You’re not buying it for that wino?’ asked the young man.
‘No, it’s for myself,’ Helen said guiltily and obviously falsely. The drunk man was pointing feverishly at some brand.
‘Listen, don’t give it to him, lady … I beg you.’
‘Are you going to sell me this bottle of cider or are you not?’ Helen could be authoritative in short bursts.
‘Two pounds eighty,’ the man said. Helen slapped the money,
her
money, down on the counter, and in an equally bad temper the bottle was shoved into a plastic bag for her.
‘Now,’ Helen said. ‘Did I or did I not do what you asked me?’
‘You did not, that’s only rat’s piss, that stuff, fancy bottles for the carriage trade. I’m not drinking that.’
‘Well don’t then.’ There were tears starting in her eyes.
‘And what’s more I’m not spending my good money on it.’
‘Have it as a present.’ She was weary.
‘Oh high and mighty, Lady Muck,’ he said. He had a good quarter of it drunk from the neck by this stage. He was holding it still by its plastic carrier bag.
Helen didn’t like the look of his face, the man was working himself up into some kind of temper, or even fit. She looked at him alarmed, and saw a huge amount of the despised cider vanishing down his throat.
‘The urine of rodents,’ he shouted. ‘Bottled by these creeps of shopkeepers and dignified with the name of alcohol.’
He banged on the window again loudly. ‘Come out, you cheat and rogue, come out here and justify this garbage.’
There were vegetable boxes piled neatly with apples
‘I don’t want any money,’ he said.
‘Of course not,’ Helen said as if it was the last thing that a man with a coat tied with string and an empty ginger-wine bottle in his hand would want.
‘I just want you to go in there and get me another bottle. The bastards say they won’t serve me. They say I’m not to come into the shop. Now if I were to give you two pounds into your hand, then you could go in and get it for me.’
From his grizzled face with its wild hair above and its stubble below his small sharp eyes shone with the brilliance of the plan.
Helen bit her lower lip and looked at him hard. He was from Ireland of course, they all were, or else Scotland. The Welsh drunks seemed to stay in their valleys, and the English didn’t get drunk in such numbers or so publicly. It was a mystery.
‘I think you’ve had enough.’
‘How would you know whether I’ve had enough or not? That’s not what we were debating. That, as it happens, was not the point at issue.’
Helen was moved, he spoke so well, he had such phrases … the point at issue. How could a man who spoke like that have let himself go so far and turn into an outcast?
Immediately she felt guilty about the thought. That was the way Grandmother O’Hagan would talk. And Helen would immediately disagree with her. Here she was at twenty-one thinking almost the same thing.
‘It’s not good for you,’ she said, and added spiritedly, ‘I said I’d do you a favour, it’s not a favour giving you more alcohol, it’s a downright disservice.’
The drunk liked such niceties and definitions, he was ready to parry with her.
‘But there is no question of your
giving
me alcohol, my dear lady,’ he said triumphantly. ‘That was never part of our agreement. You are to act as my agent in purchasing the alcohol.’ He beamed at his victory.
‘No, it’s only going to kill you.’
‘I can easily get it elsewhere. I have two pounds and I will get it elsewhere. What we are now discussing is your word given and then broken. You said you would do me a favour, now you say you will not.’
Helen stormed into the small grocery-cum-off-licence.
‘A bottle of cider,’ she asked, eyes flashing.
‘What kind?’
‘I don’t know. Any kind. That one.’ She pointed to a fancy bottle. Outside, the drunk knocked on the window and shook his head of shaggy hair, trying to point to a different brand.
‘You’re not buying it for that wino?’ asked the young man.
‘No, it’s for myself,’ Helen said guiltily and obviously falsely. The drunk man was pointing feverishly at some brand.
‘Listen, don’t give it to him, lady … I beg you.’
‘Are you going to sell me this bottle of cider or are you not?’ Helen could be authoritative in short bursts.
‘Two pounds eighty,’ the man said. Helen slapped the money,
her
money, down on the counter, and in an equally bad temper the bottle was shoved into a plastic bag for her.
‘Now,’ Helen said. ‘Did I or did I not do what you asked me?’
‘You did not, that’s only rat’s piss, that stuff, fancy bottles for the carriage trade. I’m not drinking that.’
‘Well don’t then.’ There were tears starting in her eyes.
‘And what’s more I’m not spending my good money on it.’
‘Have it as a present.’ She was weary.
‘Oh high and mighty, Lady Muck,’ he said. He had a good quarter of it drunk from the neck by this stage. He was holding it still by its plastic carrier bag.
Helen didn’t like the look of his face, the man was working himself up into some kind of temper, or even fit. She looked at him alarmed, and saw a huge amount of the despised cider vanishing down his throat.
‘The urine of rodents,’ he shouted. ‘Bottled by these creeps of shopkeepers and dignified with the name of alcohol.’
He banged on the window again loudly. ‘Come out, you cheat and rogue, come out here and justify this garbage.’
There were vegetable boxes piled neatly with apples
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