From a mile away, the cathedral bells woke me. In my delicate and still drunk condition, they sounded as if they were being rung in the next room. While they boomed, it took me a few moments to realise where I was and why I was there. The where was in the riverside apartment of my friend, Wilson Fry. The why, was because we had spent the previous evening drinking in our favourite bars, starting in the Moxhay Tavern at eight and finishing in Cecile’s Bar at one. Then we went back to his apartment and continued with whisky and wine 

We both knew that it would probably be the last time we would do such a thing, but we didn’t say anything about that. Through the half-opened door, I could see his feet sticking out beyond his bed. He slept through the bells. 

‘How long have we known each other, Peppers?’ he had asked. My name is Joseph Peploe. On occasion he refers to me, with variations, as Peppers.

‘Thirty-three years precisely,’ I said. 

‘Wow,’ he said, as if that was surprising news, although it could not have been. ‘You’ve been a good friend, man. I couldn’t have wished for better. I should have said it before and I won’t have the chance to say it again.’

‘As you have been to me, Fry,’ I said. ‘And will God-willing continue to be so.’

I surprised myself with the god-willing business. It must have been the amount I’d had to drink.

‘Let’s not, Peps,’ he said. ‘We both know the score.’

The score he was referring to was the certainty of his imminent demise, a consequence of his daily and reckless drinking. 

‘Why you doing this?’ I asked him, as I had asked on previous occasions, although I knew that it was pointless to pursue the subject beyond that initial enquiry. 

‘Why not?’ he had said, as he had said before. ‘We’ve got to go sometime and in some way. Why not now and in a way of my choosing, by way of expensive wines and spirits.’

We had been through it all before; the futility of his life as he saw it, the charade of his existence. 

‘You’ve done ok, my friend,’ I said. I knew it was a stupid thing to say, especially to a fellow like Fry, but having said it I felt like I had to follow it up, even if it was with something equally stupid. ‘Look at this for Christ’s sake.’ 

‘This?’ he looked around without enthusiasm. 

By this, we meant the apartment in which we were sitting; its size, its furnishings, and its positon on the riverside. I was aware that the small Degas, the larger Nash, and the Brancusi bird-figure were not reproductions, but were inherited from his father, a wealthy lawyer who had represented some of the most notorious hoodlums in Grover. There were also pieces he had bought for himself at auction which included two Eric Ravilious originals and a Stanley Spencer. His bookshelves were stuffed with first editions, including a signed copy of Ulysses signed by the man himself, and a first of The Sun Also Rises, also signed. That was before we got to the furniture.

There were other things in the apartment worth having, although they weren’t worth anything. They were the drawings and paintings done by Fry himself, most of them kept in folders in his bedroom, but a few which were modestly framed and hung discreetly high on the walls. He was good, and everybody who saw his stuff said so apart from him. 

‘All yours my friend,’ he said. ‘When the time comes. Pearls to swine I know but it’s all yours, Peppers. They should go to a good home, but I have decided to leave them to you instead.’

He stood and approached me unsteadily. We hugged – we had not hugged before – and he said, ‘Farewell friend. It’s been very good knowing you.’

For fear of saying something foolish, I didn’t say anything. Then he went into his bedroom and I fell asleep in a chair.

When the bells stopped, I went out onto the balcony and looked along the river. To the east, the sun was rising above the Wyckoff Exchange Building, for now the tallest in the business district, where already the foreign cleaners would be preparing the way for rich people to become richer. The business district – a big snow-globe according to my father who was a union man, where each day apart from Sundays everything gets shaken up, and each evening when everything has settled, it turns out that nothing has changed, everything has stayed the same. 

To the west, my children would be sleeping in the house which I was still paying for and where also lived their mother’s new man, an artist of sorts whom I had met briefly on two or three occasions when I went round for my fortnightly collection. I disliked him for no other reason than he spent far more time with my children than I did.

It was a nice morning, so I stood for a while looking out north toward the Greek Fields and Campion districts. When I was married, we talked about moving elsewhere, some other city or maybe some other country. My wife, as she then was, came from a small town on the coast and had many complaints about her life in Grover; too fast, too loud, too aggressive, too wet. And although I took part in the conversations, and might have given her the idea that I also wouldn’t mind moving away, I really had no intention. The fact was, and is, I like Grover. It has done ok by me, I cannot blame the city for my own failings. So what, it rains occasionally. Buy an umbrella.

       On the river below the balcony lay a line of house-boats – with names like The Lady Gwen and Super Nirvana and Easy Jim – house-boats being the latest trend for the would-be bohemians of the city. ‘Fucking hippies,’ Fry called them. When we had arrived back the previous night, he had urinated from the balcony but was not able to reach across the road to his intended targets. ‘Next time, you fuckers,’ he had shouted and laughed himself silly. 

Beyond the barges, a quarter-mile across on the other side, is Saints Walk; a stretch of large niches, now empty, but in which once stood the statues of the famous saints. They were there when I was a kid and we used to come down to the Sunday market which, at its peak, had at least one-hundred-and-fifty stalls between the two main bridges. It was our Sunday routine; Mass, then the market, then home; my mother to the kitchen, me to my homework, and my father to the Sunday papers. 

The market is gone, defeated by the indoor malls. And six-hundred years of Grover weather did for the saints, now in the City Museum. 

I took the lift down to the street and was already exhausted by the time I got to the other side of the river. I held onto the rail as I went down the concrete steps and sat on the first bench I came to. Thinking I might puke, I put my head down between my knees. Then I stood and bent forward with my arms on the back of the bench to keep me steady. As I was doing that, I noticed a small hill of material, clothes or blankets, under which, judging by a count of feet, lay two people. They were lying in the alcove which, according to the arch, had once held the statues of Saint John and Saint James. On the cobbles beneath them was the remains of a small fire. 

I wondered, as I had often wondered, what these people did when they woke up? What was the order of their day? Get some food? Or maybe drink first. Then what? A walk in the park? Tickets to the opera?  I should have had some idea, I passed them most days. I sometimes gave them my spare change if they didn’t look too menacing. 

After steadying myself, I sat on the bench again and looked across the river to Fry’s apartment. Then, I don’t know what the hell it was came over me, but my bottom lip took on a life of its own and I started snivelling like a child. It didn’t last long thank god, and when I got a grip I dried my face with my hands. Then, when my breathing had returned to its usual rhythm, I was so overcome by a sense of my own ridiculousness that I began to laugh.

‘You ok, man?’ The voice came from behind me, but I didn’t turn. Then, other than for the screech of the kittiwakes which nested under the bridge, there was a long silence. I lit a cigarette. ‘You ok?’ 

He appeared on my left. He was either very large or he was wearing everything he owned, and maybe some stuff other people owned. And even though his head was almost entirely covered by his own hair, he looked at first sight like someone I knew. 

‘You seemed distressed,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so.’ 

‘No, I don’t mind you saying so,’ I said. ‘But I’m ok now, thank you.’ I hoped he would go back to his alcove when I said that. He didn’t move though. ‘No really,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’ But he still didn’t move. A coal-barge glided under the bridge. From the deck, a man waved, and my new companion and I raised our hands to acknowledge him. Our joint bonhomie must have emboldened him.

‘You didn’t sound ok,’ he said. ‘That’s if you don’t mind me saying so.’ 

His accent surprised me. It was like mine, and like Fry’s. Educated Grover.

There was a long silence. Then he asked, ‘You think you could spare one of those?’ I tapped one up. He dug his own lighter out of a deep pocket.

‘You mind?’ he asked, pointing to the unoccupied length of the bench.

‘Feel free,’ I said, although I hadn’t been looking for company, and certainly not the company of someone who had been sleeping all night on Saints Walk. Still, when it came down to it, he was probably more entitled to the bench than me. 

‘Great morning,’ he said.

‘Suppose it is, yeah. This where you live?’ I asked, nodding back toward the recess.

‘Yeah, in a manner of speaking. One of my summer residences, you might say.’

‘And other times, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Other times? The parks, sometimes hostels in winter. Last resort though the hostel, too dangerous. What brings you here at this early hour anyway? We usually have the place to ourselves until eight.’

‘I was drinking with my friend last night. Drunk too much. I’m on my way home. I didn’t mean to wake you. I apologise.’

‘No need. I don’t sleep so good anyway. Can’t afford to, I’ve been robbed too many times. Anyway, it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Makes a change from people looking at you like you were dirt.’ 

He took a long drag on the cigarette, held it up and admired it and said, ‘This is most kind.’

‘My pleasure,’ I told him.

We sat looking out at the river, and listening to the traffic which was just starting to build on the bridge.

‘Why are you sleeping here, anyway? You mind me asking that? Am I going too far with these questions?’

‘I don’t mind at all. In fact, I’m pleased you ask. Apart from police, nobody else ever has.’ 

There was another silence, as if he had forgotten the question.

‘So?’

‘Oh yes of course, why here. The short version – decent education, good job out at the Observatory, decent money, marriage, the whole shebang. But I couldn’t stick the course, couldn’t get into the swim of that ordinary kind of life somehow. And there is this of course…’ He put his thumb and forefinger into his pocket and showed me the cap of a bottle of Wild Monk. ‘I took to this pretty early on. You want?’ 

I shook my head. 

‘You mind if I get the day started?’

‘Not at all. You start without me.’ I lit two cigarettes, and passed one across. ‘Must be a tough life, though.’

‘That’s the crazy thing,’ he said. ‘You would think so, I would have thought so. I used to see people out here and think, Christ how does that happen, how can people live like that? But, when you try it, it’s not that hard really. You get the city allowance. You might go hungry for a day or two when it runs out. Some people go hungry all their lives. There are places to wash. I can get dishwashing jobs when I really need to, clearing the garbage, that kind of thing. There’s always enough for a drink. You get to know the hand-out places. And life goes on not too unpleasantly, sometimes pretty pleasantly. What could be better than this? Looking out at the river before things get crazy. Nice, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, nice,’ I said. ‘But don’t you ever think of getting cleaned up, getting back on the merry-go-round? Sleeping in a bed?’

‘Not really. Except for my kid, I don’t miss much.’

‘Kid?’

‘I’ve got a kid. I see him once a year on his birthday, just after his birthday actually. I get cleaned up, borrow some clothes from my brother-in-law – who apparently burns them afterward – and I go to see him at my sister’s house. It kills me. They all hate me. My kid’s too young but he’ll hate me soon. They’ll make sure of that.’

‘Baby.’ 

It was a woman’s voice, distant and drowsy from the alcove. He ignored it but it came again, louder. ‘Baby, what you doing? Who you talking to? You talking to yourself?’

Still staring out at the river, the man said, ‘I’m just talking to my friend babe. Go back to sleep.’ He told me, ‘It’s my woman. My consort so to speak. She likes it down here, reckons the saints are looking after her.’

             I wanted to say that it didn’t look like they were doing such a great job, but thought better of it.

‘She have a name?’ I was warming to him. 

‘Astra. Beryl actually, but goes by Astra. She insists on it. Goes berserk if you call her Beryl. Says Beryl is her name from childhood and she didn’t much like her childhood. Something we had in common right from the start. So Astra.’

‘You drinking there?’ she called. 

‘No babe. Get some sleep.’ 

‘Come on hon, give me a drink. I’m getting cold.’

‘Excuse me would you, for one moment.’ 

He went back to the woman and bent over her. I couldn’t make out what he said but it didn’t sound too friendly. And I still couldn’t shake the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. Had I seen him begging around the city, or sleeping in a park, or seen his mug-shot in the paper? 

‘Come on Harry,’ she moaned. ‘Give me that bottle.’

Harry? Jesus Christ, Harry. I realised who he was. Word-for-word and with increasing volume the chant filled my head:

                                                 Harry Jack, Harry Jack

                                                 Put his mother on his back

                                                 Her head is made of wool and tin

                                                 Took her to the loony bin

                                                 Harry Jack Harry Jack

                                                 His poor old daddy got the sack

                                                 His poor old daddy stole the loot

                                                 His sister is a prostitute

                                                Harry Jack Harry Jack

                                                Harry Harry quack quack quack

                                                Poor old daddy’s in the nick

                                                His sister likes to suck on dick

It was from all of those years ago, but I’d heard it so often then that I remembered every word.

                                                            *

For certain families in the Grover area, St. Chads was the school to be at. And most families, including Fry’s, paid for the privilege. There were ten places a year for kids who had to pass a stiffer exam than those who paid, and me and Harald D. Jack were two who passed and were accepted. 

So, the three of us were in the same year; me, Fry and Harald Jack. And Harald turned out to be some kind of genius in maths and physics. Within weeks – we would have been about eleven or twelve by then – he started talking about the expanding universe and how, because everything was going away from us so fast, we needed to get information now about its origins otherwise we might never know, because soon the evidence would be too far away to make any sense of. He also seemed to have ideas about how to get that information. I say seemed to because nobody else, including the physics masters, knew what the hell he was going on about. So, they got an outside tutor in, just for Harry. They were sure they had a Nobel Prize winner on their hands.

Then, when we were halfway through our second year, things changed. It was in the papers and on the local radio and television news. Harald’s father got a two-year sentence for embezzlement from the chemical company he worked for, the same company where my father was a shop-steward. And just by a further coincidence he was represented by Lucian Fry, Fry’s father. The disgrace of the thing was too much for Mrs Jack who had to spend periods getting chemical treatments in St. Hollar’s. The family never recovered and people never forgot. 

So Harald D. Jack, the golden boy of the science classes, the Einstein of St. Chads, became the school pariah. Every chance they got, the rich kids mocked him, followed him round with that chant. And Harry was not the sort of kid to fight back. He just turned and tried to walk away from them, but there was no getting away and they made his life hell. The tormentor-in-chief was a fellow called Claud Kissoon, who I happen to know is now chairman of the company which had been started by his grandfather, Kissoon Insurance. 

The only person who ever intervened – I was too timid myself – was Fry who, one time when they were chasing Harry round with that chant, and Harry was crying his eyes out, told Kissoon what he thought of him and got a bust lip for his trouble. Pretty soon after that, Harry was taken out of the school and I never saw him again until now.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘She’s not a morning person.’

‘That’s ok. I didn’t get your name.’

‘Harry, pleased to meet you. And you?’

‘Joseph.’

We shook hands.

He had no idea who I was, and why would he? Surely he would want to forget people like me, the witnesses to his humiliation. And he could not be aware that, in the expensive apartments across the river lay Fry, his only defender, also drinking himself to death. Another barge floated by in the opposite direction to the first and we waved again. We must have looked a strange sight to the man on the barge, me and Harry Jack side by side at that time of the morning.  

‘Let me ask you another strange question,’ I said. ‘But do you know anyone by the name of Fry? Wilson Fry?’

‘Fry? Kind of rings a bell, but my memory’s none too great these days. Did my father, god rest him, have a friend by the name of Fry? Not sure, why do you ask?’

‘Oh nothing, just wondering. Thought you might have known the name from round here, he lives nearby. Your neighbour you might say, a friend of mine. Anyway, I’d best be moving, I’ve got a hangover to take care of. Been nice talking to you, Harry. Let me see what I have here.’

‘No, no, really. There’s no need. I didn’t speak to you for that.’

‘I know that, I know.’ I dug into my pocket and pulled out the notes I had left from the previous evening. ‘Here, take these. I’m not sure how much is there.’

‘You sure?’

‘Sure, I don’t need them.’

‘Oh, well, what can I say? Thank you. That’s breakfast at least.’ He looked at the notes now in his own hand. ‘Oh, and supper, Jesus. I shall treat my lady to a burger with onions, her favourite.’

‘Here, you might as well have these.’ I gave him the cigarette packet, there were ten or twelve left in there.

‘Oh man, thank you. This really is most gracious.’

‘Don’t mention it. It’s been nice talking to you.’

‘And you Joseph, and you. Maybe we’ll meet again, I’m often in the area.’

            ‘Maybe. Who knows.’

We shook hands, and as I walked slow and unsteady back up to the bridge, I tried to convince myself that the handing over of money and cigarettes to Harry Jack compensated in some small way for my not doing anything to alleviate his torment all those years ago. 

And I wondered whether, as he lay looking up from the alcoves, Harry D. Jack still concerned himself with the expanding universe, and about how the further everything moved away from us, the less sense we might make of it. 

And I wondered – what if it had been my father, or maybe Fry’s father, who was all over the papers back then; and if it was our mother who had lost her senses; and if it was me or Fry the rich kids of St. Chad’s had tormented – whether it might be one of us sleeping down there where the Saints used to be. 

And I wondered, as I had not wondered before, what the D stood for in Harry D. Jack.

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