Winchester Words

It was one of Grant’s mates who invited me along to the meeting. Suzie and I were mildly ‘Brexity’ but not that bothered really. We had voted for it in the referendum. Without really talking that much about it, I think that we had both got so fed up with politics and all politicians, that the idea of cutting out a layer felt kind of rebellious – almost empowering. A change from the same old same old, and a bit of a two-fingered salute to all the elite banging on about how sensible people should see the wisdom of staying ‘aligned with Europe’.  Since coming down to the coast I suppose, if I’m honest, my feelings about it had got a bit stronger. I found the number of foreigners in Hastings oddly annoying, especially since it was so much less diverse than London, which was what I was used to. I suppose I expected the capital to be like that. As I said, it’s what I was used to, but Hastings seemed like a little slice of old-fashioned England when we visited over the years. Living there, I realised that while there are loads of British old people there, its foreigners doing the jobs. I know that a lot of them were language students only staying for a few months or year, but not all of them. There were thousands of others working in shops, cafes and so many other places. In our first few months, before the lockdown, the work done at the house was done by a Polish electrician, a Spanish plasterer and a group of Somalian builders. The local convenience store was run by a Pakistani family. The wife and older daughter both wore the scarf thing. They were friendly. The girl spoke English without any accent, and she would banter, but I kind of felt worried about what this place might look like after most of those old folks died. We had no children but the family at the shop had five. What might Hastings look like in fifty years or even twenty, when we would be some of those old people, like my bird-watching neighbour. What, I wondered, did he think about it? When he had been a young man, in the 1930’s and 40’s, even London had been so much less diverse. Might Hastings become indistinguishable from London or any other world capital in its cosmopolitan ethnic mix?

Grant was more outspoken than me and through Grant I met Ryan. Ryan works in the motor trade and subs a few jobs out to Grant. I knew of him from coming down to visit but not met him until we had moved down. They often went out for drinks before Covid, and, since the summer, had resumed now and then. I went along to the pub with Grant one Wednesday. It was early September and the weather was good. It was a joy to be able to go out. In May the lockdown had sort of relaxed, but a lot of people were still wary. I was too. But, by the middle of summer, I reckoned things were getting better and the chance to have a few beers with some lads felt extra special after the months of caution since March.

I met Grant at the Royal Standard just off the end of All Saint’s Street for a swift one before going on together.

‘Mate! How’s it going?’

‘Alright, yourself?’

‘Bit slow. People ain’t changing their cars much right now but can’t complain. There’s a lot worse off than me. How’s Shaz?’ Grant asked having tentatively shaken my hand and progressed to the full hug and back slap. Was this breaking Covid distance rules I wondered? He clearly was unsure too. We broke apart, sub-consciously scanning around, checking to see if we had attracted any critical attention. I pulled open the heavy corner door and motioned Grant inside.

‘We’re getting by Grant. What will you have?’

‘Harvey’s please mate.’

‘Cool.’

I went to the bar nodding at the old bloke on the stool who was chatting to the girl serving. She was friendly. She pulled a couple of pints, I paid, and I returned, indicating Grant to head outside. He held the door as we left the dark interior for the bright sea air. The Standard’s a tiny little place and the sun was shining on the benches across the front. The salty freshness was bracing.

‘Cheers mate!’ Grant tilted his glass at me. I raised my pint to return the gesture and sucked the amber bitter through a creamy head of foam. It tasted of late summer nostalgia. Neither of us spoke for several minutes. I supped and sighed.

‘Bloody lovely.’ I sighed, having drained a quarter of the glass. ‘So, what’s with this evening’s meeting then?’

‘Dunno exactly to be fair, but basically it’s about some geezer who was stand in the election. I’ve no idea if he’ll be there, but Ryan reckons he would have stood a good chance of beating that Rudd woman… if he’d ‘ave actually been on the ballot paper. But now we’ve got another bleeding Tory. Hopefully this one ain’t just pretending to support Brexit.’

‘Who’s she then?’

‘Bloody hell Wayne, she’s some double-barrel. Sally-Anne whatever, she’s our bleedin’ M.P.!’

‘Oh, right. I thought that other one was like wanting to support leaving an that though?’

‘Well yeah, she might have said that, but she weren’t in favour of Leave at the time of the vote in ’16. Ryan says she stood in the way all along. Still, she gone and we’ve got another Tory who also says she supports Leave.’

‘Oh, okay. It don’t surprise me. Seems like they all say one thing and do another.’

‘Well, that’s indisputable innit.

We fell silent again. I looked out across the road towards the seafront. The image of my neighbour floated up in my mind as I swigged and savoured the lower half of my pint. He would have been a teenager through the war. I wondered what he would think about Europe and how he felt about this massive split that Leaving had ripped open across the country. Grant had got me onto Twitter. I had really enjoyed it. It seemed so much more real than the distant calm of the politicians mealy-mouthed answers. Proper opinions from ordinary people. Recently though I was becoming less sure. The anger with which some of the Tweeters voiced things and the total disrespect for anyone with a different view was starting to make me uncomfortable.

‘You said you was managing an that, yeah?’

‘Huh huh,’ I nodded.

‘You know that I’ll try to get you a bit of work as soon as I can, like. It might only be doing a bit of valeting, once Ryan buzzes me a few resprays and bodywork.’

‘Cheers, Grant. I know you’ve got my back.’

‘Right then, down the hatch mate. Time we shot down the Carlisle.’

We necked the dregs of beer. Plonked the glasses noisily on the wooden tabletop and left. We walked along the promenade on the seaward side. The boating lake slid past as I asked Grant how Suzie was getting on. She had lost her father to Covid early on when London had seemed likely to be overrun. We approached a group of young Asian girls heading to the amusements. I continued forwards but moved to one side to let them pass between Grant and I on the wide pavement. However, one of the girls had moved across the same way. We both moved back as the gap between us shrank to a few feet. We both drew up to avoid bumping one into the other. I pointed to my left, and she, to my right. We both blurted apologies and passed each other smiling. I jogged a few steps to catch up with Grant, the girls continued along the front. They were laughing with each other, much like any teenaged girls might.

‘Fucking towelheads!’ Grant shook with laughter. ‘Walking around covered up like that, all holier than thou, and then off to waste money on the slot machines. It don’t mean nothin. It ain’t right that they come here and wear that stuff in our country.’

‘She was alright G. Just a normal kid.’ I felt sorry for her. Grant had always been borderline racist. I think that it had a lot to do with Suzie and he moving out of London when they did. He walked on without replying, beyond a grunt, which could have meant anything, or nothing.

The meeting was at The Carlisle on Pelham Street, just off the seafront. A proper pub, unlike so many, it is still a pub, not a restaurant. ‘Gastro-pub’ they might be called, but they are basically only good for middle-aged, middleclass people going out for a meal. A glass of house wine with the meal but the heart ripped out of the place. Piped lift-music, no darts team, few regulars, a fake fire and nowhere to sit at the bar. The Carlisle is a proper pub. They have live music, societies that meet there, good beer and the sense of community is strong.

Crossing the main drag away from the sea front we arrived at the corner door of the Carlisle and pushed through into the cool shade. Just inside I saw a faded poster. A man’s face under block capitals spelling out ‘Bewick for Brexit’. The reputation of the pub as a rockers bar wasn’t quite my scene, but the place was friendly and the range of beers pretty good.

‘What you having Wayne?’ Grant asked, before chatting to the middle-aged barmaid who he seemed to know. She was heavily made up and attractive. Part rock-chick, part punk, which looked oddly appropriate, even at her age, possibly because she fitted the vibe of the pub. Whilst they chatted, I bent and scanned the line of pumps along the bar and settled on a summer guest ale from a Lewes micro-brewery. The somewhat burlesque lady curled long red-nailed fingers around a glass and pulled the pint with three long slow pulls on the lever, angling the glass and licking her lips with seeming concentration. She could not have made it look more erotic. I took the beer off the shiny wooden bar top and lifted it.  It was pale, cool and cloudy with a hint of citrus. Very summery.   

‘So, is the meeting upstairs then, love?’

‘Got it in one, Grantie.’  She chuckled, seeming to enjoy his calling her love.

I followed Grant up the stairs hearing voices growing louder. We crossed the landing and emerged into a large room with windows overlooking the sea. There were a couple of dozen people there mostly men with pints on tables. There were two couples sitting together on a bench seat. Everyone was talking. The atmosphere seemed jolly; again people glad to be released from the shackles of lockdown. Grant indicated a table in the middle of the room where Ryan sat with a thick set mate with a stubble beard. He was a huge man wearing a muscle vest that revealed tattoos that climbed off his chest and over the glistening mounds of his pumped shoulders. I felt myself shrinking inwardly as I squeezed into the chair between him and Grant. We nodded as Grant introduced us all and sat a bit awkwardly supping our pints. I looked around the room with more focus. There was a variety of ages. Mostly it was older men with flannel trousers, but there were a few younger blokes. A strange mixture of people but everyone was white. There was a group of three blokes in their twenties with skin fade haircuts wearing England football shirts. One of the couples were necking in the corner. The guy had a chain tattooed on his neck. I glanced back at the tattooed muscleman beside me, trying not to be too obviously staring. I saw that he had animals on the shoulder nearest me. A lion roaring and a bulldog with teeth bared, superimposed over a rippling Union Jack Flag. I glanced up and meet his eyes which flicked down at his shoulder and back up to mine. Uncomfortable, I felt a flush of embarrassment rising to my cheeks and cast my eyes across the room, seeking a possible rescue.  I returned to my beer with intense focus, conscious that the bloke next to me was watching me. Was he pissed off, or did he feel I envied him his powerful physique? Either way I was not at all at ease. My beer was more than half drunk when I noticed a chap in his forties looking repeatedly at his watch before standing. He began clearing his throat as he wove his way between tables to the front of the room. Relieved, I felt the slightly accusative psychological attention of my bulging drinking companion shift away from me. The hubbub of noise quietened to silence as watchman reached a table by the wall draped in a Union flag. It was flanked by Brexit Party posters. The man speaking was not the Tom Bewick from the poster in the lobby, but he urged us to support the Brexit Party despite its failure to oust the sitting MP who had been an independent because she had needed to apologise to all the immigrants who came here with the Windrush scandal. She had been replaced by the Tory, Sally-Ann that Grant had dismissed earlier. He cast doubt on how genuine her Brexit values were.  He name-dropped a bit, with Nigel Farage cropping up on several occasions. He said that just as Amber Rudd had not been trustworthy in pushing for a proper Brexit, since in fact, she had voted several times in favour of May’s Withdrawal Agreement. He reckoned that this new Tory needed watching. May’s deal had been a rubbish deal that left us virtually stuck in Europe without a voice. He questioned whether Boris Johnson really would follow through with his threat to walk away without a deal. The more he talked about freedom from the EU the more uncertain I felt. I refocused on what he was saying.

‘… so I say, why should we accept all these immigrants? We are a sovereign country and we’re an island. We have a border with water all around us. European countries share common borders with many neighbours, and they are porous. We don’t need to be affected like this. We make things too easy. We’re seen as a soft touch. That’s why these people leave France and come here. Turn them back I say. We must stop the tide of small boats.’ There was a ripple of approval around the room.  The speaker looked more confident, buoyed by a short outbreak of applause.

‘These so-called asylum seekers are frauds. They are parasites looking to abuse the welfare state that our fathers and grandfathers fought world wars to give birth to. They’re the ones who’ve paid into this, and now we are. It ain’t right that this invasion of foreigners come here to take what isn’t theirs! What right do they have? If you want to stop Europe telling us that we have to respect these people’s human rights, you got to fight for it. Fight for our rights, your rights, fight for a proper Brexit. Hold Johnson to his word. We stood aside to let him win. He owes us, and he must deliver!’

Meaty hands clapped loudly beside me and the wave of applause spread around the room as the speaker shouted his thanks above the noise.

‘Spot on, that was.’ Ryan confirmed his approval. ‘This place is full of foreigners and faggots. We got to make a stand.’

‘I work fucking hard for what I’ve got. It pisses me off seeing these people getting something for nothing.’ Added the tattooed giant beside me. 

We had a few more drinks at The Carlisle and the three other guys were keen to go on to another place they liked down St Leonards way. I declined to go. After the third, and then fourth pint, Ryan and his tattooed mate were becoming steadily louder and I could tell that even Grant was getting uncomfortable with the things they were saying. Ryan was going on about a bloke he followed who had moved out to Romania to get away from politically correctness. Although there was a lot of racist talk, the most heated stuff was about the growing gay culture in Hastings. It seemed like they were borderline obsessed with homosexuality. How openly gay men walked the streets. How they wanted to do something about it. I was embarrassed. I had no gay friends that I knew of, but neither had I any great objection to people doing as they wished and finding love where they could. With a mounting sense of discomfort, I realised that the tattooed bloke was staring at me with what could only be described as an accusative frown. Once aware of his gaze I began to flush. The outward signs of my awkwardness only served to intensify the hulk’s undisguised glare. It was little short of pointing at me and demanding to know if I was gay. My dilemma seemed like a humiliating lose, lose situation. Departure at that point could be interpreted as confirmation that I was indeed gay but staying would involve further insinuation by this muscled fool. There was a sense in which being neutral, let alone voicing caution about giving queers a kick in, was considered being one of them. It was simplistic, ill-informed and ignorant. Whilst I felt myself to be all three of those things I recognised that I was in the company of people who, under the influence of a modest mount of alcohol, were even more ill-informed, ignorant and, worst of all, incredibly angry. They were dangerous. I felt a degree of fear for my own safety and I wasn’t even gay. The sort of bigoted hatred that I had heard from some parts of the evangelical church was echoed by this group of white working-class men who showed contempt for the church, religion, women, the wealthy and especially gay men. Why were they so furious about it? I could not understand, but decided that leaving for home instead of the next pub was the best course of action, even if muscles though it ‘suspect’. Once outside on the pavement I escaped the intense eyeballing and made my excuses. The muscleman turned to the others conspiratorially as I said farewell, waved and strode off eastward along the promenade. I was sure he was suggested to them that I was far too sympathetic to the gay community and had questions to answer.

They talked. I heard a three-way raucous laugh and stupidly glanced back over my shoulder just at the point when the three heads turned in my direction. I waved again, awkwardly to cover my backward gaze, and cursed inwardly for having done so. I worried that it had probably looked like a very unnatural, effeminate gesture. God, what a disaster. Hopefully Ryan would set the record straight. Tell them that I have a wife and not a hint of homosexuality about me. Do I protest too much, I wondered? Is that why these guys get so angry, to try to prove their masculinity by more and more vitriolic hate speech? At least I had got free of the angry toxicity of their conversation.  I tossed the confusion of ideas in my head whilst walking home. Gradually calming. In the middle distance I saw the group of girls crossing the street from the amusements. The one who had nearly bumped into me earlier recognised me and we acknowledged each other with an imperceptible inclination of the head as we passed on different sides of the now quiet road.