One for the Road

The bar of the Flying Dutchman was already smoky. No mean feat considering there were only six customers present.
“Mornin’ mate,” said Mick, the barman, “what are you having?”
“Afternoon. Well just…,” I replied, nodding at the clock above the bar. It stood at a few minutes past noon.
Mick shrugged, “Morning, afternoon, evening. You all still end up in here.”
“Where everyone knows your name…”
“…and your business. So, what’s it to be? You’re looking a bit rough. I told you to go steady last night.”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “but that brew of yours is such a good year.”
“1967. One of the best!” declared Mick, rightfully proud.
“Summer of love,” I agreed. “But l think I’ll stick to some of your usual watered down lager of the Australian variety today, if you don’t mind.”
Mick nodded, “One on its way for the man who can’t handle his beer.”

As he walked to the far end of the bar I looked around at the few regulars dotted here and there. Those taking any notice of my presence gave slight twitches of their heads, barely a nod really. The rest had their faces buried in the racing pages of the daily rag.

“Here you go, mate,” said Mick, delivering my pint with a quick wipe of the bar.
I barely had a word of thanks out of my mouth, when my good friend Dave burst through the pub door.
“And I thought you looked like crap,” uttered Mick, his eyes wide.
Dave had a cut to his chin, a shirt covered in blood, the collar of his jacket was half-ripped and the left knee of his jeans had a fresh hole in them. At least it matched the right knee now. The look of rage on his face was warning enough not to say anything until he had calmed down. His dark eyes looked blacker than usual, but deep within, there was a small spark of something. Excitement? Mischief? Fear? It could have been all three.
I nodded to the barman to pour my friend the same watery brew I had, then I waited for Dave’s heavy breathing to stop.
“Ta,” he said eventually and reached for it, with a noticeably shaky hand. After a couple of sips, he let rip with a string of curses, mostly Anglo-Saxon. A few extra heads rose from the racing pages not alerted earlier by Dave’s semi- dramatic entrance. He waved an equally semi-apologetic hand at them and they returned to the business of the day.
“Right,” said Dave, “you can tell me you told me so, now I’ve had a sip or two.”
“Well, it’s not like I didn’t warn you. "
“I know, but I couldn’t resist it. It was just too tempting. You went off on a jaunt too.”
I shrugged, “What I did was a lot less dangerous. You don’t have a skinful then go looking for trouble.”
“I didn’t start the trouble!” Dave’s voice began to lose some of its defiance. He remained silent for a few seconds and stared at his beer. I allowed him the silence. It is never fun to be beaten up, especially where he had been. Still looking through rather than at his pint glass, he started to speak again, this time in a much quieter tone.
“The worst thing is I think I saw her. My grandmother. Standing on the street corner, crying.”

Then I understood.

“We need to sort this out, Dave. We can’t leave it like this.”
He looked at me, smiled slowly, then rose to his feet, “I’ll need to clean up a bit first.”
“Fair enough,” I turned to Mick, “Two glasses of the ‘34, please.”
Mick smiled and disappeared into his cellar.

A short-lived summer shower caused the cobbled streets to glisten under the gaslight as we walked along a winding alleyway, lined with shuttered shops.
“Quaint”, I mused.
“Should see it in daylight,” said Dave, “beautiful, stunning even.”
“Yeah, easy to forget, isn’t it?”
We both gave a shudder. Our feet clattered noisily as we strode toward a larger street, just beginning to reveal itself around a bend. It always surprised me how silent a city could be at night. The warmth of the evening and the recent shower caused a lively freshness in the air. We could have been heading to a tavern on a European weekend break. As we approached the street, a shadow loomed towards us and shortened as we turned the long bend. Out of the night, a huge, middle-aged man approached, staggering slightly. He spotted us and threw his arms out wide,
“Guten abend! Guten abend!” he shouted.
We replied in kind but with less gusto. The beer on his breath was quite overpowering. He continued his shouting, launching himself into a hug that encompassed the both of us, and he seemed to be asking us to come to “Herr Muller’s Bierkellar”. We shook our heads and released ourselves from his grip before the man, laughing uproariously, disappeared toward the direction we had come.
“Nice fella,” said Dave.
“Seen worse,” I agreed, “not sure that I haven’t smelled worse, though.”
‘“Oh, I’m sure some of the states we’ve been in have been a little aromatic.”
I nodded, “We nearly there yet?”
“Getting close. We need to keep our wits about us now,” and immediately, Dave’s demeanour became more alert, his voice lowering perceptibly. We were here for a reason, after all.
The larger street appeared to be a main thoroughfare; couples walked hand in hand, a few street vendors were still plying their trade and numerous cafes were open. I gave Dave a “where to” look and he nodded in the direction of a brightly lit bar, its colourful awning stretched out across the paving. It would have been an extremely pleasant place to watch the earlier summer shower, even more pleasant now that evening life was emerging onto the newly cleansed streets.
“Is that the place?” I asked.
“Yeah, if we park ourselves at one of the tables, we’ll be able to spot them before they spot us.”
“Okay. Looks a bit busy. Could things get out of hand?”
Dave chuckled, “I thought you was up for this? You don’t have to hang about, you know.”
I thought about this. Did I really want to run the risk of getting into a fight? Moreover, about something that really had nothing to do with me? There was the involvement of Dave’s grandmother, though. I sighed and looked around me. It was so beautiful. We selected a table and a waiter immediately appeared at our shoulder.
“Bitte?”
Dave looked up at him, “Err, zwei..um..beers..bitte?”
The waiter laughed, “Let me guess, Englanders? English?”
We both nodded, dumbly.
“I should have guessed at your clothes. You wear the strangest things. I saw a man with those trousers with the socks?”
I sat in silence.
“Plus-fours?” Dave offered.
“The plus-fours, that is it,” replied the waiter. “Two beers on their way. Danke”
He gave a small bow of his head and I watched him retreat into the bar. I turned to Dave, but he was staring across the road at a closed-up shop.
“There she is! My gran.”
An elderly woman accompanied by a couple in their thirties and a young girl appeared in the doorway of the shop. They were all carrying suitcases. The man turned and shut the door, locking it up.
“This is when it happened,” said Dave. “Exactly the same weather, everything.”
From around the corner, three men appeared, uniformed in brown shirts, black trousers and highly polished Sam Brown belts. They were laughing as they approached us, their hobnailed jackboots rattling the cobbles. I looked at Dave in alarm then across the road at the family. The man seemed to be agitated and searching along the street for something. I turned back to Dave. His knuckles were white as he gripped his chair.
“About now,” Dave said.
I mentally prepared myself for trouble. Get stuck in and give as good as you get. Don’t hesitate or you’ll end up in as much as a state as Dave was.
The brownshirts reached the bar. They were huge! A braying voice breeched the evening peace.
“I say chaps, come and join me in a drink!”
The voice was grating, upper class and very, very English. I turned round thinking that maybe he had noticed we were his fellow countrymen.
“We need a few of your types back home, I can tell you! Mind you, they are trying to organise. Some chap called Moseley.” He was addressing the brownshirts.
Dave swore under his breath and began to rise from his seat.
“Is this what happened?” I asked.
“Yeah,” replied Dave, his face full of fire.
I grabbed him, “Then sit down!”
“But that total twa...” Dave’s face changed before me, the anger slipping away, “Look!”
He was pointing across the road. The family and Dave’s grandmother were climbing into a taxi, all smiles, not a care in the world.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“So?”
“She didn’t see me beaten up.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the brownshirts moving on. They had obviously declined the invitation from the Englishman.
“But, what now?” I asked. I was at a total loss.
“Nothing,” Dave shook his head, “we go home.”

Back in The Flying Dutchman, I contemplated the pint in my hand, wondering what it would look like decorating Dave, “I thought I was going there to save your gran! I thought you had put her under risk!”
“No. That very evening she came here on holiday with her grandmother and her parents. They decided to stay when they found out their shop back in Hamburg had been smashed up by the Nazis. Got out in the nick of time, as it happens.”
“But why the difference this time? You were raring for a fight earlier.”
“With the brownshirts? You must be kidding; did you see the size of them? It was that upper class twit. Couldn’t stand him sucking up to them. You noticed they pretty much ignored him. They weren’t impressed. Laughed at me getting a pasting, though. Boy, did he have a punch! Queensberry rules, I expect. But, you saved the day there.”
I gave him a look, “Go on.”
“Just by telling me to sit down. It came to me. What was burning me up. I can’t have my gran seeing me, or anyone beaten up. Not when she’s only five.”
Dave paused as I took this in.
“And she always did say she was amazingly lucky to get out of Germany without seeing anything awful back then.”
I nodded, slowly understanding.
“We’ve got to stop drinking, you know? It’s not good.”
“I agree,” said Dave knocking his pint back. “Tomorrow.”

We both laughed, then suddenly, two meaty arms engulfed our shoulders.
“I told you, you should visit my Bierkellar, gentlemen!” his laugh was deafening, the beer on his breath was overpowering,
“You speak English well,” I stated, recognising him.
I looked at Dave, and then at Mick, who had sauntered over to us, carrying some glasses. Mick winked, “So you’ve met Herr Muller on your travels, I see.”
I turned to Herr Muller and studied the huge, jovial man; he was less drunk than earlier.
“Our German is awful to the extent of being non-existent.”
Muller made a small explosive sound with his lips, “Typical of the English.”
An idea crept into my head. I looked at the clock above the bar. It was just gone nine.

What the hell? Why not? He spoke our language. He knew Hamburg!
I turned to my friend and the beaming, friendly German, then to the
barman, “Mick? Four glasses of your finest vintage 1960, please. Fancy seeing a band?”
They looked at each other then back at me and nodded.

Mick smiled and disappeared into his cellar.