UNCLE GEORGE    [Part 3 of 10?]

By Richard Banks

I concluded my work for the day by burning the papers in the hearth and, after feeding myself again, made ready for the gig. We departed in John’s car about seven for a pub called the Green Man where there was live music most Saturdays. My first impression that he was a likeable sort of guy proved only too true, and it came as no surprise that he knew my uncle rather better than most people know their neighbours.

         “George,” he assured me, “was a grand old chap, always ready to lend a hand when one was needed. He did a lot of jobs for me and other people around here, only taking money to cover the cost of the materials he used. In return I would run him over to Cromer when he had business there, or to the Hare and Hounds on a Sunday when the bus there don’t run.”

         “So he liked a pint then, my uncle?”

         “Not particularly. But he liked the company there, fellows like himself if you get my drift.”

         “You mean he was...gay?”

         “Well, he never said as much, but there was no hiding it. Not that he ever attempted to, though it would have been better for him had he tried. It wouldn’t have been an issue in London, or even in Norwich, but in this backwater the folks aren’t exactly progressive.”

         “So they gave him a hard time?”

         “Yeah, much was said, sometimes to his face, other times in not so quiet whispers behind his back. When the farmers were hiring he was always the last to be asked. How he managed before he got his pension I’ll never know. It couldn’t have been easy.”

         “Did he ever mention me?”

         “Only once and then not by name. Said he had made a will and left everything to a nephew he hadn’t seen in twenty years. Said you were a bright boy with a curious mind who would exceed all expectations, including your own, if you were prepared to go the extra mile.”

         “Meaning?”

         “Work hard, I guess. That’s what I thought at the time, proud uncle hoping his nephew would do well and have the breaks he didn’t. Left school at fourteen your uncle and was often out of work. He would have been pleased to see you doing better.”

         By the time we arrived at the Green Man I was feeling more than a little guilty of being the beneficiary of a poor man whom I had done nothing to help in the twenty three years our lives had overlapped. Whatever else I did that evening I was definitely going to raise a glass in his honour and say a quiet, but sincere thank you to my uncle and benefactor.

         The pub was the largest within five miles and, on a live music night, full to the rafters. Under the stern gaze of its landlord, a former commando called Hikey, it had a surprisingly diverse clientele of all ages where the upwardly mobile rubbed shoulders with the rough and ready, and feuding biker gangs maintained an uneasy truce with each until off the premises.

         On discovering that John, like myself, was partial to a Guinness we got served and sat ourselves down at the last table with unclaimed seats. The Rocket Boys were a man down on their original line-up. Barely recognisable from their heyday they were still a good turn and going down well with the locals when, to my horror, I spotted my assailants of the previous day standing together near the stage. Having inadvertently made eye contact with one of them, he and the others were now returning my gaze with surly expressions that while not exactly friendly were at least an improvement on what they were showing me the previous day. Had Callow’s intervention been enough to ensure my safety? I was soon to find out.

         The Group’s first set over, the oldest guy among them beat a straight line towards me beer glass in hand. About fifty years of age he was someone you wouldn’t want to be upsetting. Tall and thickset he had the build of a man who spent much of his time lifting weights in a gym. His patronage of a tattoo parlour was also evident from the decorations on his arms and chest which the hang-loose vest he was wearing did little to hide. The hell’s angel face on his chest was scarcely less threatening than his own that, from below a shaven head, was staring, in unfriendly fashion, at everyone about him - everyone that is but myself who was now being favoured by his best attempt at a smile.

         “Hi, I’m Frankie Beale,” he said, extending his free hand for the shaking. “I gather you’ve already met my boys. Sorry about the misunderstanding. Now we know you’re George’s kith and kin it won’t happen again. A great bloke your uncle; we got on well. He knew my Dad way back, were in the same class at school. Always stood by his friends did George even when it did him no good. But that’s the sort of guy he was, and we did well by him when we could. Let me know if you need any help taking stuff down to the tip, I’ll send one of the boys over with the van.”

         Having no wish to renew my acquaintanceship with his sons I thanked him for his ‘kind offer’ but declared myself, as yet, undecided what to do with Uncle’s effects. He nodded thoughtfully and after further expressions of regret over, “the passing of good old George” returned to the company of his sons. Relieved to see him go I was, at the same time, puzzled by some of the things he had said. Even though I knew next to nothing about my uncle it seemed unlikely that he and Frankie had ever been friends. If that had been the case why hadn’t he come to the funeral? And what was he alluding to when he said that uncle stuck by his friends, ‘even when it did him no good’, a strange turn of phrase. Had uncle got too close to the Beale’s and suffered as a consequence? If Frankie had said a little more than he intended it was probably not a good idea to be asking him any awkward questions. I was at peace with the Beale’s, no point in risking that!

         It was not until we were heading back to Petherdale that John expressed surprise that I should know the Beale’s. On assuring him that I didn’t I recounted my encounter with Frankie’s sons and Mr Callow’s intervention.

         “Good grief,” he exclaimed, “you’ve had a narrow escape. It’s serious grief for anyone who gets on the wrong side of them. People around here don’t even talk about them in case they get to hear what’s said.”

         “Did my uncle have any involvement with them? It won’t go any further than ourselves.”

         “That’s OK mate. I know I can trust you to keep it to yourself, but there’s not much I can tell you. Your uncle knew Frankie Beale that’s for sure; I saw them talking in the street several times. Your uncle was never at ease when they were together. As to what they were saying I was never close enough to hear.”

         “And he never spoke of Frankie, or his sons?”

         “Never. He would have known better than most not to do that. The only other thing I can tell you is that I once saw Frankie give your uncle something from his wallet, probably money, but I can’t say for sure, so maybe what he said about doing well by George wasn’t so far from the truth. However, if I was you I would let it go, some things are best not to know.”

         It was, of course, good advice, and well meant, but not enough to put me off making enquiries at the bank and the newspaper. What could be the harm in that? 

 (to be Continued)

 Copyright Richard Banks