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Molly's Boy
Down The Long Road
A selection of fish
Excerpt 7
We furnished the flat a bit better than Greenwich and when the office manager in Honda was getting rid of a suite of furniture we got it for practically nothing and it gave our sitting room a comfortable air. We even went down to Archway and bought lace curtains and when we purchased a fish tank off one of the Honda packers we were moving into the field of opulence. A selection of fish was bought and John took charge and over time built up a nice collection. I went down to Crouch End and bought our first plant, a medium sized fern, and it blossomed in our kitchen window. Tristan still flitted round in his own touchy world and only appeared in the sitting room when we hired a television. He appeared to be unable to have any conversation and he would sit looking at the screen totally blocking out your presence; yet you were aware that he was a ticking emotional time bomb with his feelings locked way in some deep vault waiting for a teller to turn the key.
He had a West Indian girl friend who turned up now and again. She was chatty and charming and funny and good company; she was everything that Tristan wasn't. Perhaps it was me who caused this brooding automaton in Tristan to suspect and be antagonistic but I got on pretty well with a wide range of people and I could not understand why I could not be friends with him. He left few openings and he preferred any dealings to be sharp, barely courteous and leaving me with a strong desire to avoid his presence. Occasionally he deigned to become human. He was doing his knowledge to train as a black cab London taxi driver and had bought a low cc Honda motor cycle with the help of John who was entitled to a discount. As I returned home from work this evening I found Tristan hobbling ahead of me after having a nasty accident with a car and he was badly shaken up. He showed real pleasure in seeing me and was pleased to be able to share the pain of his misfortune. He leaned on my shoulder as he hobbled along to our flat and it was the only and last time that he let his guard down and became accessible to me. I don't know what was going on in that brooding brain but there was a lot of hurt and I did not have the patience or the ability to reach in and communicate. In some ways there was a principled and sensitive man there only recognisable to his girl friend and, I hope, some others.
John and me continued our explorations of the London pubs. We had the village of Crouch End just down a leafy avenue lined with magnificent houses with attractive gables and turrets and little follies which could have been the backdrop for children's fairy tales. In the centre of the village was the clock tower and it was quiet and comfortable place with just enough people to give it a busyness without being crowded. We would start off in the Railway Arms with its grained wooden floor and polished counter brasses and Bass ale. The customers were artistic and anarchist dressed in a hippy style and treated their beer as a necessity to help deal with the corruption of modern life. There was never any aggression or disorder only the slightly raised heated voice in intense discussion. The Kings Arms was cosier with an older clientele with Courage beer and a lively interest in the day's racing and sport. The Forge was one of the first real ale pubs with a good selection of great beers and an eclectic jumble of junk spread over the white washed walls. It was loose and airy and allowed the mind to wander within the disordered interior. We would finish up in the Castle which was a large ranging pub catering for a cross section of Crouch End with the young and family groups and the odd serious drinker propping up the bar with his own story.
Down the Holloway Road were the tougher Irish pubs. There the men and some of the women of Ireland drank their Guinness and light and bitters and caroused and laughed and had the craic as only the Irish know how. During the week they would arrive in their working clothes without any thought of going home to change. Their work was often laborious and sapping of energy so it was necessary to replenish the inner and outer man before thinking of something as mundane as food. They enjoyed their drink and if there was a little music to lighten the journey or a couple of ballads to remind themselves of nostalgic days in Kerry or Donegal well so much the better. Sunday morning was a different kettle of fish. Probably having made it to half past eleven mass they arrived at he Holloway pubs spruced up and shining from the unusual shave to a glistening shine on the new boots that would one day take their turn in a Murphy or McNicholas ditch. Each raising and sip of the glass was a pleasure in a life that had to be dragged out of the pressure and isolation of London.
Across the other way we visited Highgate. This was a classically beautiful village on a hill coming up from Archway. From the Highgate hotel at the top to Ye Olde Crown at the bottom each pub was a demonstration of the best an English inn could offer. They were welcoming and comfortable and each had a distinctive individuality which invited and warmed. The Flask pub in Highgate, not to be confused with the Flask in Hampstead, was very popular and fashionable and on a summer's day it was a joy to sit outside on the wooden benches and observe your neighbour and be observed. There was a compatibility in this company; they were all people out to enjoy themselves and there was no air of trouble or the drink getting the upper hand. These were not people fighting for a living but mainly those who had a good direction in life and were moving on with purpose. We would stroll back to Hornsey along quiet almost country roads over the towering bridge on the main Archway road and enjoy a good meal and a nice afternoon snooze to allow the beer to settle.
All texts are ©1999
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