David Time's view of himself began at the station platform; his polished black toe-capped boots, the turn-ups, the creases in his trousers, and, to his left, three precise inches away, his tan briefcase, as yet empty, save for four thin salmon-paste sandwiches and an apple; mother-washed, polished.

David stepped forward to the platform's edge. To David's left, west, the track swung sharply, disappearing into Caer-Brynton tunnel. Two pastel advertisements sagged on boards. One was for Bovril, the other, Ovaltine.

David looked the other way, east, and there the tracks wriggled; they snaked out towards Chepstow, criss-crossing, woven; lemon early-day sunlight tinging back at odd moments, odd rises, high points of track.

And the smell of steam, sulphur tanged into him. Faint, he heard "Chough! Chough; Chugger, Chugger; Chug-Chough, Chug-Chough.."

At Caldicot, the colonel entrained, resplendent, small dress-medals on the charcoal of his chest, his moustache white, the linen of his Victoria Cross a rich catholic purple.

They were traveling third-class to rein in expenses; the fields rattled by; bridges, fences; past low fields and water, the grey Severn shining; phone wires dancing, the colonel dozing.

At Chepstow the river was brown. A woman climbed in, sat down; her boy beside her, five years old already, wide-eyed, excited, clutching a teddy, and settling finally, clicking his heels, crackling a sweet-paper, grinding his teeth; as the train rushed to Swindon.

Between Swindon and Reading the land was more simple, rolling and gentle, white chalk and ample, dull cows and farmyards, and distant grey roads, the carriage now empty, the old woman gone.

He remembered the young man, his old-faced mother, her ration-book clothes and her head in another - world, they were stopping, suddenly breaking, slowing down, jerking, as Reading approached.

At Reading two young lads, nineteen or twenty; they sat down; in bright soccer scarves, plenty to say, drinking from cans as they rattled to London, one burped, said sorry as froth marked the seat.

Paddington, London.

David stepped down from the train. Above him the glass roof echoed with memories, smells, forty-five years of dirt. He walked slowly down the platform. A middle-aged man passed him, screwing a sweet-paper as he went towards the barrier. A few years before he had lost his mother and David knew him vaguely.

He decided not to use the underground, not today, not his last day. The streets of London flashed and screeched, barped in summer light, people, spikey colors, a boy, green hair, a safety-pin through his cheek.

And there were railings too, metal everywhere, young women wearing bright clothes, going out with GI's he guessed. Then suddenly, again, he thought himself failing, aches all through him, that pain in his chest...

He had wanted one last day, his last day, the last day, just one day, his own day, to settle, to smile. "So David, retirement, so how does it feel, how many years is it, it hardly seems real - commuting from Newport, Monday to Friday, week in week out, month after month. You must've seen changes, hey, steam and then diesel and now fast electrics, hell, David, un-real!!"

On the trolley he looked up as oiled wheels rolled; softly softly softly along a corridor without lights. He didn't know if his eyes were open or closed but the ceiling was dull fawn and he saw a man's eyes for a second. He remembered an old colonel, just after the war, handsome, with a waxed moustache - he'd won a VC. He thought of his mother making careful, thin salmon-paste sandwiches and he looked down at his polished, polished, black, toe-capped boots.

I always think, you know, it's like being on stage. You have to look your best. You come in from the wings and there's your audience and straight away, you're in the spotlight, you can't hide, and every night you have to perform, no matter what. You've been short-changed on the maintenance again and the kids need new shoes, maybe it's time of the month and you're feeling shit, but you have to do it, you do, look good for the punters. It's yer job.

I nearly went stripping once, but at the last minute, I bottled out. I thought that being behind a bar would be easier. I've been here for two years, one month, a week and a half; five quid an hour, tips and a conveyor belt of blokes. I think I should've gone stripping. The lights, you know, it's one kind of glamorous, especially early on in the evening, when the smoke's not too bad and the blokes are still close to being reasonable. When you first come in, you can't smell the beer or the fag-ash. They clean the place with some special stuff that's got a really strong perfume and they've brassed up the taps. For a while, you feel really great.

The blokes that come in early, they're either the old fellahs, or guys on their way home from work. The old fellahs, they'll use my name and smile. Sometimes they'll call me luv but in a nice sort of way.

'My usual, Amy.'
'Half a Mack's luv.'
'Hello, Amy, how's the best-looking girl in Brighton?'

Later on, you get the serious drinkers, the leches an' the young lads who drink too fast like they want to hurt themselves. They're the worst, the lads, they talk like rapists. There's something cold and nasty in their eyes even if it is only the drink. They say the most horrible, the dirtiest things sometimes. Sometimes, if it gets really out of hand, the landlord'll say something but most of the time we're expected to cope. 'Call it water off a duck's back and just keep serving,' Bill says. So that's what we do. Sometimes you get a chance to say something funny, but you have to be so careful nowadays. Young blokes, they've got no honour. They'd hit an old man, two or three on one, so what's a barwoman to them? As far as they're concerned, we're all slags. They haven't got a clue. I know it's the drink talking but they still haven't got a clue. I wonder sometimes if they've got mothers. I just don't know...

You get chatted up all the time. A nice bloke does it, maybe I'll go out with him but only if I've laid down the law first. I've had marriage - and sex, well I can take it or leave it. I tell 'em, before we go out, but they never believe me. They believe me when I do say goodnight on the door though, just like I said I would. Girls should have the choice, right? So when this bloke came in one night, not a regular, asked for a 6X and then said there was magic in my face, light in my eyes, I was a bit taken back, you know, like you would be.

'You what?' I said.
He smiled at me.
'I said you've got a nice face.'
'Tell me something I don't know,' I said.
'Tomatoes,' he said, 'people used to think they were poisonous.'
'What?' I said.
'People thought you couldn't eat tomatoes. They thought they were poisonous.'
It was fairly quiet so I said, 'I knew that.'
'Knew what?'
'Tomatoes. Poisonous.'
'But they're not,' he said.
'Some of 'em might be.'
'My name's Frank,' he said.

He went then and I didn't see him for days. That night, after tilling up and wiping down, I had a brandy with Bill. I wanted to ask him if he knew this Frank, but I didn't. I kept thinking about him but I couldn't picture his face, except that it was pale. I didn't sleep all that well. In the morning, my flatmate Mary did us both a fry-up. She asked me if I wanted tomatoes.

'No thanks,' I said. 'Did you know they used to think they were poisonous?'
'Who did?' Mary said.
'Did what?'
'Thought tomatoes?'
I should have asked Frank that but I never thought.
'Everyone.' I said.
'Bollocks,' she said.

Frank came in again about two weeks later. He was wearing jeans, a donkey jacket and that slightly off-centred smile.

I said, 'Pint?'
He said, 'There are more plastic flamingos in the world than real ones.'
'Fascinating,' I said.
'Fancy trying the other side of the bar some time?' he said.
'No,' I said.
When I told Mary, (about the flamingos), she said, 'Who says?'
I told her, 'Me. I counted them.'

A week before my thirty-seventh birthday he came in again, a white-haired bim on his arm with licensed tits.

'Pint?' I said.
'Please,' he said.
'And what about your mother?' I said.

I served 'em. They went away. I couldn't quite see them but I heard him once, laughing at something dirty, then her, hee-hawing like a ship's boiler.

When he came back to the bar, I asked, 'Is your mother not well?'

'Did you know,' he said, 'that Lemmings are afraid of heights?'

'Yes,' I said, 'And did you know that in this country alone, an average of seventy-two people every day die while they're taking a crap?'

'How many is that world-wide?' he said.

I was best part of thirty-eight next time I saw him. He came in with a thing about fifteen, plain brown hair but the spit of her mother.

'Got time to talk?' he said.
'No,' I said, 'too much to do.'
'Shame,' he said. 'I was rather hoping you were ready to hop the bar.'
'Busy!' I said. 'Pint?'
'Please,' he said, 'and a coke for my niece.'
, p-ll-eease...' I said. His niece? I couldn't help myself.
What d'you mean?' the little bim said to me. 'This is my Uncle Frank. You' ve met my Mum, already.'
Frank grinned. 'Did you know,' he said, 'that Oscar Wilde wanted to be a professional footballer?'
'What club?' I said.
Then he asked me, he said, 'Can you fall in love in instalments?'
I gave him a pint, a coke and best part of a smile.
'Well?' he said.
I leaned forward. His eyes were blue. He pursed his lips.
'Ask me next time you're in,' I said.

I'm thirty nine tomorrow. Frank's promised to come in. He's going to get me pregnant tonight. His niece is baby-sitting my Davey and we're going over to Worthing for a night at the dogs. I fancy a curry after and then a drive up the Downs. Did you know there's enough chalk under the Downs to supply every teacher for the next billion years? That's not just the UK, that's every teacher, every teacher in the whole world.

The universe probably.



Alex Keegan

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