Lucille

Trucker sits in the corner; reading a dirty paper, rolling a dirty fag. The pub’s quiet; no music, no drunken banter. It’s like a fucking morgue. Mary mops the floor. He looks up.

“How ye doing Jimmy, good to see you mate. What’s the crack?”

God almighty, he’s already on the sauce; house wine red. Some call it paint stripper, but Trucker calls it vintage.

“I’m good matey. Where the boys, isn’t there a big game later?”. I order my fifth for the day and pull up a chair. He’s playing the horses.

“They all in Whitechapel Jimmy; watching the game at Oatsey’s house”, he says. “He got his missus to cook a pot of chilli. She’s good with the cooking, and Walker got a good deal on beef from Tommy on the corner; 3 squids for a kilo, so he invited everyone over. Jeff’s bringing the pickled eggs and a skin of wine.”

I choke on my pint; froth blowing through my nose like a whale.

“You having a laugh ain’t ye,” I say, cleaning my face. “Oatsey’s wife cooks like shite; burns everything, including water. Remember when she did those eggs? They stuck to the pan, and ash from her fag landed on the yolk. She just mixed it all up, the dirty cow.”

Trucker bellows with laughter.

“And then she cursed us when we didn’t eat it, and threw it in the bin on Christmas morning. Jayzuz, she was steamin’ by 7am. I think it was that cheap ASDA cider; Shite!”

He laughs even louder.

“So, are ye going to Oatsey then?” I ask, taking off my glasses for a clean.

“Can’t do today Jimmy; seeing my son for a beer, he’s down for the weekend. Shite, it’s been three years. He works in Leeds; factory director leading plant operations for the European market; been there five years. Lucille called last week, said he wants to see me.”

Trucker never married Lucille; said she wasn’t good enough. He had his head up his arse all those days, drinking too much with the boys, never home. He was off the rails and we couldn’t understand why. Of course it made sense later.

“You lost a good woman there, you sod” I says. “She loved ye more than anything, and you pissed it up and threw it all away.”

“She was a dirty slag Jimmy”, he blurts out. “You know just as well that she was fucking Neville the paramedic all those months while I was away with Rusty.”

I’d forgotten about Rusty.

Trucker lives in Bermondsey now; done so for years. He never drinks in his local, and prefers to take the bus to Commercial Road; says it’s safer. I visited him one time when he was released from Wormwood Scrubs; a short stint for selling stolen goods his mum ‘acquired’ from a guy she knew in West London. We knew this guy as Rusty; a shady character from Brixton; worked out of a garage in Soho. Rusty shifted low quality goods to Trucker in high quality plastic bags, the packaging impeccable. Even the packing tape was expensive; three rolls for a fiver. Rusty never drank in this joint because he was worried that half his clientele would recognise him. Then they was nicked; a botched job trying to sell ten cases of Betamax video tapes to a Sunday Times reporter working undercover. Trucker got 10 months in the Scrubs.

The time inside didn’t help his relationship with Lucille, and she met another bloke, but it didn’t last. He was a clean shaven banker from the city, with six figures on the bottom line. She didn’t have a quid to scratch her arse.

Those were dark days for Trucker.

He lives alone now in a small one bedroom council estate apartment in a block where clothes hang on lines and balconies are littered with all sorts of shit from previous lives – old rusty washing machines, bicycles without front wheels, and beer crates with dusty green bottles. His father was a priest; Anglican I think, but was banned from the church because he was dipping into church donations. He said it wasn’t him, blamed one of the helpers, but took the fall anyway. Trucker didn’t know his mother and his life was rough from the start.

And no, she never fucked Neville, because Neville was fucking Stuart. Stuart had a little flower shop in the West End and he loved carnations. He wore a fresh one in his lapel every morning. Neville fell in love with him during the summer of 83′. He loved that bloody carnation. He was an appealing young man (if you was into guys) and wore these tight white T-shirts. His arms were as thick as legs, and he worked out six days a week at Martha’s doing the bench press. Everyone knew about this.

“Neville wasn’t fucking Lucille, you prick. He was gay.”

“What the bloody hell shite ye talking about, Jimmy?” he grumbles. “Neville wasn’t gay, he was a hunky stud, and all the girls liked him. I bet he fucked all of ‘em, and that’s why I got the dose; the affliction of it.”

“Bowlocks you twat,” I says, “you had a kidney stone, it wasn’t the clap, you stupid shite.”

We drink some more and he goes on about Neville for another five minutes. “Ah well Jimmy, she never loved me anyways,” he says. And then he’s quiet, reading the paper, marking the horses.

Lucille arrives.

She walks in, looks around, and spots us in the corner. She smiles and heads across to our table. She looks more beautiful than ever. “Bloody hell, what’s this all about then?” he says, grumbling under his breath.

“Good Mornin’ Jimmy, good to see you me old mucker,” she says and hugs me. She smells like a thousand red roses, her skin soft on my cheek, her eyes like emeralds. “Hi-ya honey,” she says to Trucker, “You look well,” and hugs him. They exchange greetings. ”I thought Michael was coming around, have you heard from him?” he asks, all confused.

“I’m sorry babe, he called this morning, said he couldn’t make it; had some problems at the factory and that he had to work. I thought I would come around and tells ye. He says he will be down Tuesday, if you around?”. Trucker smiles at her.

“Where the boys?” she asks, and he explains again.

“Well, if ye get your shite together, I’ll give you a lift, but make sharp, the kick-off is in ten minutes, and I’m late for my hair” she says. Trucker looks at me, downs his beer, and grabs his coat; leaving his paper and pen on the table. Fuck the horses!

“Ta-da Jimmy, see you later”, he says smiling. I say goodbye and watch them leave; Trucker opening the door for Lucille as they step outside. He never stopped loving her.

Alone now and Mary mops the floor.

I flick through the classifieds, looking for some part-time work; nothing doing. Outside it’s raining and I think of the summer of 83’; hot and full of life. Gazza married Andromeda; Frank got engaged to Jayne, and Aunty Eileen won two grand on the horses. It was a fabulous summer.

Stuart buried Neville 18 months later; a tragic accident on the M1 towards Manchester. It was a sad day; a dozen pall bearers from the gay club all dressed in white with little red carnations carrying the casket. He left the city soon after that; a broken man.