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
“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?
Copyright Richard Banks