3. An Expedition To The Pole (i)

An evening at The North Pole was called for.

For me, The Pole is the best pub around. Comfortably shabby, like your grandad's old Ford Escort, and smelling about the same: old leather, stale beer, the faint tang of cigarette smoke - still there even after all these years. The bar is shaped like the prow of a ship, cleaving through a maroon carpet of sea – public bar to starboard, quiet bar to port. There’s nothing else dividing them, though. It’s just a matter of ambience. The place has the essentials: decent juke box, dartboard, pool table, upright piano, fruit machine. Seafaring prints in nicotine sepia. Roaring fire. Diverse mix of clientele – but thankfully no bar-stool generals or lager-lads. They stick to the George and Dragon or the Wetherspoon's.

The usual crowd was in. Oakie Woods the tree surgeon and his lads, Spence and Varnie, hulking over the fruit machine, putting back in as they took out. Mole the Motor, proprietor of 'Mole's Motors', back there in the corner, his eyes glinting in the shadows. Lemon, with his pint of lager top and threadbare yellow jumper, reading his newspaper - his lips moving silently over the words. The old geezers from the residential home along the seafront, deep in their card game only they understand. Suzy and Trina, the newly-engaged, cuddling down at the table near the fire with their pints of cider. Phantom Fred the undertaker - so called because of skin pallor, narrow build and mediumistic qualities - playing pool on his own. A few other faceless refugees from the lonely rooms, the mindless telly, the rent dues. The has-beens, never weres, dreamers and despairers. These tiny, isolated islands in the common sea of humanity - average age, about forty-five. Easy chatter to a low, resonant soundtrack: Bessie Smith – Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.

I was perched at the bar, port side, with Sherlock. Our pints were there, in front of us - half-full or half-empty, depending on which way you looked at it. We hadn't said a word for a good five minutes, but we'd known each other long enough to be able to sit without speaking and not feel uncomfortable.

At length, Sherlock lifted the peak of his lumberjack cap, scratched the few remaining hairs underneath, pulled it down again - lower, so that his eyes were almost hidden. It was often a sign of renewed brain activity.

"What's on your mind, mate?" I offered.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"How long have you got?"

I glanced at the clock above the optics. Quarter to ten. Time enough yet.

He sniffed. "Just the same metaphysical thoughts that run through my head as I'm sweeping the pavements on my daily round."

He paused and stared into his beer, like there might be a whole new universe in there waiting to be discovered. Cyril Leslie Arthur Stanley Holmes. Sherlock to his friends. He prefered it - in spite of the pukka set of initials (his daddy had been a bank robber, too, so the legend goes). He played up to it a bit with his cap. And the magnifier he used in lieu of the glasses he kept meaning to get tested for. And his curved hash pipe. And, of course, the absence of women - not that he was alone there, so to speak.

"Metaphysical, eh?"

He tipped his glass a bit, rearranging the star clusters.

"People think I'm bullshitting when I say that," he said. "But it's true. There's something quite... I dunno... relaxing about it. It's like a meditation, you know. Even the Buddhists have got a word for it. Soji. Cleanses the spirit as well as the gutters, so to speak. I just go through the motions on auto-pilot, so I can switch off and think my thoughts. Not many jobs give you that."

"I've never looked at it that way," I said. "If it was me, I think I'd just end up getting angry all the time at the shit people chuck down."

"Literally shit too, mate," he said. "Still... at least they have the decency to bag it up first nowadays before putting it back."

I grunted. "That would piss me off, too. I mean... what's that all about?"

"It's about people, H, that's all," he sighed. "Just people, doing what people do."

I shook my head.

"I was brought up differently, I suppose. Take your shit home with you."

"Same here, mate. Times change, though. Throwaway society now. People perhaps don't give it the same thought. Anyway... it keeps me in a job."

We considered that a moment.

"I have to be philosophical about it, H. All kinds of people make up this world. Wouldn't do if we were all the same. And a little bit of friction thrown into the mix is good. Keeps us lively. Gives us a reason to keep striving."

He emptied his glass and put it down by the pump. Denise ambled along from her perch at the end of the bar and started to fill it. No need to ask.

“Same for this one as well, Den,” he said, as I emptied out too.

He slipped his hand in his back pocket and pulled out a fiver. He spread it out in front of him on the bar and looked at it sideways.

“Now, there’s a strange thing. I could have sworn that was brown when I checked it earlier."

Denise placed the fresh pints down and looked at the note.

“Must be Happy Hour, lads,” she said, picking it up.

Sherlock raised his cap and grinned. “What a darlin’ you are, Den. So much better than that miserable old git we had here before.” Denise batted her eyes at him from beneath her chestnut fringe. She leaned forward a bit, popped the note down the front of her blouse, then wandered back to her stool in that strange, off-centre, arse-swinging way of hers.

Sherlock was right. She was happier than her predecessor. Dennis’s grumpiness, though, was understandable. It can’t be easy when your head’s on the wrong body. Took her a long time to come out, too. She wasn't sure how people would react. She needn't have worried. The results were plain to see. It was just that walk. She was getting there, though - a step at a time.

We took the tops off our pints and settled back.

"Yep," Sherlock said, slotting back into his track. "All kinds of people. Like this lot in here. Look at 'em."

We did. The Woodses. Mole. Lemon with his whispering lips. Fred's bony fingers bridging up for a shot.

"Ordinary enough folk," he went on. "Nothing remarkable about them, you'd think. Surfaces, though. Who knows what's going on underneath it all?"

"That's why I write, mate," I said. "That's what interests me. The face beneath the mask. The truth inside the lie."

He nodded. "Nice way to put it. I like that. The truth inside the lie."

We drank in silence again for a few moments. Then Sherlock lifted his cap, scratched his head, pulled it down.

"I'll tell you a story," he said. "About a time when I had my eyes opened. Did I ever mention to you that I really was a detective once?"

(continued) https://www.abctales.com/story/harryc/3-expedition-pole-ii