Gravestones…
by Lee Rourke
Charlie Bruen’s feet were sore. In fact, Charlie Bruen was sore. It seemed he’d been walking all day long. He didn’t like walking all day long. He didn’t like walking full stop – he preferred taxis. But today he hadn’t the money for such luxuries. So Charlie Bruen walked. In actual fact he’d only been walking for about fifteen minutes, but already the muscles felt like they were being slowly torn from his shins like meat from an over-roasted shank. He was winding himself through the crooked side-streets of Hoxton, north-east central London. The gherkin-like Swiss Re building towered over the fading Georgian/Victorian slums of Hoxton Market, glinting in the distance, like a beacon beckoning him onwards to Old Street his destination. There was a distinct odour of fried meat in the air – meat of every description: dripping Donner Kebab, sizzling chicken nuggets, kidney’s and offal emanating from Cooke’s Pie and Mash shop, fatty processed burgers from various ephemeral takeaways littering the street. The piercing shill of a large gaggle of schoolchildren disturbed the altogether, everyday ambience. Just as he was about to cross the street to purchase a red apple – his favourite – from a street trader a familiar voice clattered behind him. Charlie Bruen turned immediately on his tired heels to find old Pat Owen – an old friend – grinning back at him.
Charlie…
Pat…
What are you doing here at this hour? You normally don’t venture out until mid afternoon at the earliest…
I have business to attend to…
Oh, you do? Well then, allow me to buy you a drink in celebration…
Oh…Well…I…Shouldn’t really…
Yes you should, for the road, you know…
Well, I…
Go on…
Okay then, just the one mind…
Good man…Good, good man…
Charlie Bruen and old Pat Owen walked into The Bacchus – a real spit and sawdust Hoxton affair with wallpaper and nicotine-stained paint peeling from the walls. The ceiling was literally dripping in age-old sweat and tears. The overweight barmaid poured both men a pint of warm Young’s Bitter each and two cheap whiskey chasers – this constituted one drink by old Pat Owen’s inebriated standards. The warm Bitter tasted good and Charlie Bruen let it pour into his awaiting gullet like only a seasoned drinker could. He felt he deserved it after such a brisk walk. He immediately ordered two more of the same – after the first round was sank of course. Both men talked about nothing in particular with verve and bonhomie until Charlie Bruen finally bid farewell and continued on with his journey. With his stomach full of booze the walk didn’t seem to bother him as much and he soon began to find a pleasant and accommodating rhythm in his step. Charlie turned onto Fanshaw Street and looked at the numerous Pigeons nesting happily in a burnt out dilapidated building. Each bird seemed jovial and content. It seemed like a good life to Charlie Bruen. He carried on walking and soon bumped into Cam Stoppard sitting alone on a bench whilst sipping from a can of Gold Label.
Cam…
Why, if it isn’t Charlie Bruen…
Cam, what are you doing here? All alone…I thought you’d have been propping up the bar of The Macbeth by now?…
Nah…I needed some time alone, you know…To think. She’s only gone and left me again…Fancy a drink?…
Cam Stoppard held up a can of Gold Label, it caught the sun creeping down through a gap in the clouds and twinkled like a little fairy light on a Christmas tree.
Well…I shouldn’t really…I have business to attend to…
Is that so? Well business should never be attended to on an empty stomach, here drink this, come and sit with me…
I thought you wanted to be alone?…
I can’t let an old drinking partner walk by without a slurp of the good stuff, now, can I ?
No, I suppose you can’t…
Charlie Bruen plonked himself down next to Cam Stoppard on the bench and opened the warm, gleaming can of Gold Label he had been handed. It tasted like warm treacle. He let it pour into his awaiting intestines. Both men began to chew the colloquial fat – they eagerly talked about Arsenal being knocked out of the Champions League the previous evening. Both were not happy about some of the referee’s decisions on the night. Cam Stoppard vehemently proposed that there should be more “consistency” regarding certain recurring “flash points” in the game. Apparently Cam Stoppard thought the referee a “cunting disgrace” who deserved to be “shot, not once, but twice in the cunting knackers”. Charlie Bruen nodded his head and acquiesced as old friends do. He couldn’t help thinking that Cam Stoppard was speaking sense for once – he rarely did regarding football as the horses were his game. Charlie Bruen soon finished his can of warm Gold Label and promptly bid farewell. He carried on his long slog then hesitated momentarily and, instead of walking on ahead onto Pitfield Street as he should have done, he turned back onto Hoxton Market and walked into the nearest Ladbrokes. Charlie Bruen had been given a hot tip from Cam Stoppard and it was a chance he just couldn’t ignore – everybody knew that’s how Cam Stoppard was able to put food on the table of an evening. Charlie Bruen put five pounds - half his money - on the nose. “Burning Tiger” was a sure shot said Cam Stoppard between slurps. Charlie Bruen waited, Ladbrokes was jam-packed with the usual weary faces. “Burning Tiger” eventually came in fourth. Charlie Bruen cursed, realising that when a woman leaves a man like Cam Stoppard it’s probably because his luck has run out on the horses. He continued his crooked, meandering journey. Soon Charlie Bruen arrived at his destination. His whole body ached, especially his tired and worn out shins. He walked up to the plush, modern, sparse reception and spoke softly to the sombre-looking lady behind the desk.
Hello…
Hello…
Yes…My name’s Charles Bruen…I’m here to see Maisy Simmonds…
Yes…
Yes, I have an interview…
An interview…
Yes, an interview for Post Room Operative…
An interview for Post Room Operative with Maisy Simmonds…
Yes, that’s correct…
I’m afraid all interviews are finished for the day…
They have?
Yes, you’re over two hours late Mr Bruen…
I am?
Yes…
Well, can’t I be squeezed in?…I’ve travelled…Can’t I come back tomorrow? The traffic was a nightmare on the way in, and I don’t own a mobile so I couldn’t contact you, and…
I’m afraid that’s just not possible Mr Bruen…
Right…
Goodbye Mr Bruen…
Goodbye…
Charlie Bruen walked slovenly out of the Building and back onto Old Street – he wasn’t quite sure if it was the alcohol or the rejection that was making him walk with such a dishevelled gait. He walked like this until he reached City Road and then headed south. Charlie Bruen convinced himself that it must have been the assortment of Alcohol he’d consumed as, if he really put his mind to it, he didn’t much want the job anyway. Suddenly he noticed he was outside the historic Bunhill Cemetery. Charlie Bruen liked cemeteries, he always had had. He couldn’t tell anybody why he liked them; he’d never thought about it that deeply. He just knew he always had, as far back as he could remember. He immediately walked inside. He walked slowly around the grounds, looking at the various sarcophagi, observing the pathway and keeping off the grass whilst looking for an empty bench to sit on. Charlie Bruen needed to think. He also needed to rest his tired and dejected limbs. He stopped. A smallish gravestone caught his peripheral vision. It was a small unassuming gravestone sitting rather forlornly beside an extremely grand plinth of notable distinction. Charlie Bruen was happy that someone had left a jam-jar with four fading Irises pouting out beneath the
unpretentious little gravestone. He read its inscription:
the Poet-Painter
William Blake
1757-1827
and of his wife
Catherine Sophia
1762-1831
Who the hell is William Blake the poor little bleeder? Never been one for all that poetry. All these grand gravestones around and all he gets is this little slab of stone. But, still, at least he has some flowers. At least someone remembers him, doesn’t matter how grand you are if no one remembers you. At least people remember him. Whoever he was all those years ago. But that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the end. Everything is meaningless if it just comes to this. A gravestone off the City Road choking in bus fumes day and night. Nothing matters. Nothing. My life is meaningless unless I’m remembered. And I’m remembered. I’m Charlie Bruen. I do odd jobs for people. A jack of all trades. People respect me. That job doesn’t matter. It’s about making the most of now. And now work doesn’t come into it. It never has. Who wants to waste their years working for the bigger man anyway? You never get anywhere, and neither do they. Just a bigger bloody bastard of a gravestone that’s all. And who needs that when you’re six feet under? I certainly don’t. I need a drink.