Beer, Ale and Smelly Feet

Beer, Ale and Smelly Feet

written by: Deni Neighbour

 

Artie placed his flat cap on the table and throwing his coat on the back of the chair, sat down with a thud.

‘Gawd blimey Art! You nearly took the bleedin’ chair legs orf’

Bert pushed the legs with his foot; sure, they’d be bent.

‘It’s me gout playing up, took me bloody ages to get ‘ere. Bert, get us a beer.’

Artie slid money over, ‘get yourself one and ‘im,’ he nodded towards Sam who sat hands clasped, cap on head, eyes closed.

‘I’ll ‘ave an ale,’ Sam opened one eye then pulled his cap down over his face.

Artie banged the table with his palm.

‘You ignorant sod. Open ya eyes.’

Sam laughed, took his pipe out of his pocket, lit it and sucked deeply.

‘You ‘ave no sense of humour Art, not even when we were lads, you ‘ad a face as long as an ‘orse and never laughed. ‘Ow your missus put up with you I’ll never know.’

‘I’ll trust you’ll leave me missus out of this Sam, she ‘ad good taste she did otherwise, she’s been orf with that Brian the Cobbler’s lad. Nah, she knew which side ‘er bread was buttered on. Anyway, ‘e looked like an old, battered boot.’

Sam laughed and coughed simultaneously. Bert walked steadily back over, still managing to spill drink in the tray.

‘Blimey, that stinks Sam!’ Bert wrinkled his nose.

‘So do your bloody feet Bert,’ Sam puffed away, ‘where’s Tom got to? ‘E should’ve been ‘ere by now.’

The pub was warm and smoky. Kitty the landlady, leaned on the bar, chatting to two soldiers in uniform, kitbags by their feet. Her ruby red lips smiling. Over in the corner, teenagers looked at the jukebox, arms and gazes entangled.

Couples and friends were dotted around, the glasses clinked, and chatter murmured.

‘What are you doing?’ Artie stared at Bert, ‘’Ave you gone soft in the ‘ead?’

Bert, one foot bare, head down, sniffed his sock. His ever-growing bald patch visible.

‘Well, ‘e said me feet stink. I ‘ad to check.’

‘It was a bloody joke, Bert! I can’t believe you’d take it to ‘eart. Lawd ‘elp us, you’re as daft as a brush’ Sam nudged Artie and they howled with laughter.

‘It ain’t bleeding funny. You always say it, piss taker,’ shoving his sock on, Bert swore loudly, ‘ang on, there’s Tom. Over ‘ere!’ he shouted.

Smiling, Tom weaved his way over. Recently, his angina had been chronic, but it was cracking to see his old mates; the tonic he needed.

‘What you ‘aving Tom?’

Tom winked before replying.

‘A beer Sam. Terrible smell of feet ain’t there?’

Bert sniffed under the table. Sam whispered to Artie.

‘You think he knows ‘e’s dead yet?’

‘Nah. We’ll tell ‘im after he’s had a few, it’ll be a shock, like it was for us, but no doubt he’ll get over it.’

Throwing his cap on the table, Tom sat down and pulled out a deck of cards.

‘Right’ he smiled, ‘anyone for a game of gin rummy?’