‘Considering? Is that supposed to mean that wom- that little people can’t drink as much as a big fellow like you?’
He grinned, displaying several missing teeth that gave his gnarled old face a jaunty look.
‘No. They just usually end up unconscious under the table if they give it a go.’
‘Well, I’m not nearly drunk enough for that yet!’
‘Let’s drink to that.’ He raised his cup. ‘Bottoms up!’
‘No,’ I told him, raising my cup but shaking my head. ‘Bottoms down. I won’t take my bottom off this chair until I am completely intoxi… intoxiwhatsy… well you know what I mean.’
‘No, I ain’t got no clue, to be honest, lad.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
We sat there and drank for a few minutes in companionable silence. I studied my counterpart as I did so. He was an old chap, sixty years or more, a sailor’s cap covering his bald head, and his wiry figure wrapped in an old, faded jacket. I liked him. He didn’t seem to be in a very good mood, though. He was staring into his cup dejectedly, and whenever he showed his charming toothless grin, there was a tinge of melancholy to it.
‘The world just ain’t what it used to be no more, lad,’ he said, smiling sadly and raising his cup again.
‘We can agree on that,’ I said, and we clinked cups and drank. After all, I was sitting in the back room of a disreputable pub in the East End, getting thoroughly and royally drunk. If somebody had told me a few months ago I would be doing this, I’d have suggested they see a doctor.
‘No honesty, you know,’ he added dejectedly. ‘Nowhere.’
‘Quite right.’
We clinked cups again. We drank.
I wondered what would happen if I told him that he was having this conversation with a girl in disguise. Maybe he would be angry about my dishonesty? Though something about the glassy look in his eyes made me think that maybe he’d laugh at the good joke, or maybe just not understand what I was saying.
‘Makes me really want to get drunk,’ the gnarled old sailor said.
I nodded.
We clinked cups. We drank.
‘So… why do you want to get drunk?’ He asked.
I scowled.
‘Because somebody I despise told me not to.’
He laughed. ‘Is that so? You don't despise him, little fellow!’
‘And how would you know? You don't even know who I’m talking about!’
‘Because if ye despised him, ye wouldn’t care what he told you to do. Ye'd just ignore him for the puddle of piss he is. Ye respect him. And ye want him to respect ye. That’s why ye ain’t doing what he’s told ye. So ye can show him ye've got your own 'ead on your shoulders!’
‘What are you? A doctor or gipsy fortune-teller or what?’
The sailor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Nay, lad, just an old man who’s seen too damn much of the world.’
‘So what about you?’ I asked, eager to change the subject. ‘Why are you getting drunk?’
The shoulders slumped even farther.
‘I told ye. Dishonesty.’
‘Yes, but what kind of dishonesty? Were you tricked?’
‘Aye, tricked, lad. Tricked as surely as ever a fellow was.’
He gave a deep sigh.
‘So you really want to ‘ear my sad story, lad, do you? I warn ye, it’s as sad a story as ever you ’eard.’
‘As I said,’ gesturing to the chair I was sitting on, ‘Bottoms down. I’m not going anywhere for a while. You might as well unburden your heart while we get drunk.’
‘You’re a good lad.’
The old sailor sighed again. ‘Oh, well… I’ve got this partner, you know? ’ad him ever since I came to London. When times are tough, we… do jobs together, ye know? The world ain’t what it used to be. Surviving can be 'ard, sometimes.’
I had the feeling that the 'jobs' he alluded to weren’t exactly legal. But I wasn’t feeling particularly judgemental tonight. He seemed like a nice old fellow, for a man, and besides, the yellow piggies were still performing so delightfully at the back of the room - I just couldn’t be in a bad mood…
‘We were real pals, this fellow and me,’ the old man continued sadly. ‘Did everything together, shared everything together. If one of us found a job, we always got the other, and we split the cash. But then, the other night, he came in 'ere, drunk like the dickens, and started playing at cards, ye know. And he starts wearing fancy stuff he ain’t got the money for. So I go and asks him where the money’s coming from, and he tells me he’s got luck at the tables. But ye see, I know he’s not telling the truth. I know he’s found a good job and don’t want to share. So I follow him, and what do I see? Him going off to meet some posh geezer. Gives him something, and gets a bag full of cash in return, the little weasel!’
He took another large swallow from his cup, and gave a big, big sigh.
‘The world really ain’t what it used to be. I wouldn’t never have expected that of 'im. Not of old Tom Gurney.’
I nodded philosophically. Only a few seconds later did the name register in my befuddled brain.
I choked on my next mouthful of the burning drink.
‘W-what did you say his name was?’ I gasped, coughing.
‘Tom. Thomas Gurney, the little weasel. Can’t imagine he did that, and to me, who looked after him ever since his mum died. Aye, the world ain’t what it used to be no longer…’
‘Yes, yes, I’m sure it aintn't… um… isn’t. Tell me… where exactly was this house where your partner met this “posh geezer”?’
I had a nice, long talk with my friend, the old sailor, and afterwards sat and watched the amazing visions produced by the burning drink. The dancing piggies at the back of the room had performed about half of a Russian ballet when I heard a familiar arctic voice from the main room.
‘Mr Linton? Mr Linton!’
‘Ah.’ I sighed and nodded to my drinking companion. ‘Duty calls.’
He grinned at me.
‘Don’t be too hard on him, lad.’
‘I?’ I demanded, outraged. ‘Hard on him? He’s my superior, not the other way around.’
‘Exactly.’
