Amends

"Do you think I drink too much?"

Tommy looked up from the cash register. "Hm? Do I what?"

"Do you think I drink too much?"

"I'm a bar man, Phil" said Tommy, flapping his towel in the direction
of the fruit machine to illustrate. "Why you asking me?"

Who else is there to ask? thought Phil, but he said nothing. He watched
Tommy ease his considerable bulk out from behind the bar, and wander
about emptying ash trays. It was force of habit, really. Most of them
were as empty as the pub. Under the jukebox the puppy whimpered and
stretched out. Phil yawned. The fruitie was winking at him, enticing.
He turned his back on it and hunched over the bar.

"Is it Monica?" asked Tommy, squeezing himself back in again. Tommy had
learned in the past eighteen months that mostly with Phil it was
Monica.

"Maybe," muttered Phil, "yes...no. I don't know. Perhaps. If I hadn't
spent so long sitting up here, talking about her? I could have been at
home, you know, talking to her, trying to sort things out."

Tommy said nothing. As the eyes and ears of the pub he knew very well
Monica had never been sat at home lonely. He shifted uncomfortably and
glanced at Phil. Maybe he should suggest he looked for a proper job
instead of skanking the social, but there were profits to consider.
These were lean times. He took Phil's glass and poured him another
Guiness. Phil stared at it mournfully. He missed Kristiana, the little
polish barmaid. She would draw hearts in the foam of his pints.
Sometimes flowers. She'd gone now though, disillusioned. Shocked to
find English man were just Polish men, beneath it all. Tommy was not
really a substitute. He didn't smell as nice, for one.

They were all leaving him, he thought, taking a welcome mouthful. First
the builders, their work on the new shopping centre complete. Welsh
Steve emigrated, and Derek got posted abroad with work. The Geordie
lads fell out with each other and neither had been seen since. Then
Kristiana fled, and shortly afterwards Dave was barred for calling
Tommy 'a stinking paddy fuckwit.' Nev stopped drinking in there on
principle, and took Debbie and their four screaming kids with him. They
drank down the street now, in a place that was rumoured to have a pool
table. Phil had never ventured in. This was his local. His refuge, his
rock. His Anchor, he thought, and smiled to himself. Without Debbie the
darts team had fallen apart, which was a shame. There were some nice
birds on The Anchor darts team. Many a cosy Thursday evening he'd spent
watching them slowly sinking Bacardi Breezers to steady their aim.
Monica would roll her eyes at them, and make fun, but he knew she was
jealous really. Excluded. Monica, with her silver jewellery and subtle
beauty, would never be on the team.

Now he was thinking of Monica again. He felt unsteady. There was a
white pain between his eyes. He'd known, when she stayed out all night,
that the game was finally up. He'd lost. But still, he hadn't been
prepared. She'd come home sobbing and then he was sobbing and then she
was running out into the night, one sleeve of her coat flapping. In too
much of a hurry even to dress properly. He'd run down the street after
her, shoes in hand, barefoot, unheeding. She managed to flag a taxi and
escape. He hurled his trainers after her, as cars swerved angrily
around him. Then he'd come up to The Anchor and played the fruit
machine blind til Tommy made a bed up for him upstairs. He'd spent his
entire Jobseekers in one evening. He could hear the fruit machine
behind him now, whirring and bleeping, taunting. He looked at Tommy,
who was absentmindedly polishing glasses. He asked him again.

"Do I drink too much?"

"Of course not, mate. When you have to drink down The Dog cos we won't
have you. Then you'll know you drink too much."

It was eighteen months before Phil found himself in The Dog and
Partridge. There'd been a small misunderstanding over the track listing
to Rubber Soul, Monica's reputation, and the internet. A pint glass was
thrown. A window was broken. A lip was split. And he was barred from
his sanctuary. ('Sure I feel terrible,' said Tommy, 'but you've got to
understand?It's since Monica left, Phil?get yourself sorted out, eh
mate?') He felt uneasy walking into The Dog. Enemy territory. The only
contact he'd had with these heathen people was the rough and tumble of
a Sunday League morning. It was bright and white and noisy, full of
outcasts from The Anchor and teenagers Tommy wouldn't risk serving. He
noticed, without much satisfaction, that there was a pool table after
all. He cleared his throat. There was a woman behind the bar, equal to
Tommy in stature, but fiercer looking.

"Guinness."

"You that lad who's missus ran off?"

"Um..." Phil felt the colour rising in his cheeks and giving him
away.

"No funny business in here, alright?" said the woman, placing his drink
down with unexpected tenderness. There was a silence as they watched it
settle.

"I'm Mel," she said, as he raised the glass to his lips, "that's right
honey, you get that down ya. It'll help you forget."

And it did.

Soon he was on the pool team, then darts. Tommy used to change the
fruitie every two weeks in The Anchor, so Phil rarely got the measure
of them, but in The Dog the machine was old and dusty and he soon fell
in love with it. Learned its little tricks. In time he even managed to
get a job, driving a van and delivering car parts. Not much, but enough
to keep him in Guinness and whiskey chasers. He found himself pulling
into the The Dog's car park every night, and driving the unsteady mile
home in the early hours. He got on with Mel, although she never drew
him flowers. She served him way past twelve, which he felt was the more
important quality. Years passed, until his days of living with Monica
and joking with Tommy were all but forgotten.

Then one day he reversed out of The Dog's car park and straight over
The Anchor's dog.

The police were unsympathetic. Tommy was inconsolable, howling and
raving until they threatened to arrest him for breach of the peace. He
retreated, gasping, back to The Anchor. He closed up, and stayed closed
for a fortnight. Everyone understood. A pub had to have a dog. It was
never the same in there again.

Phil was hunched over the body, dry heaving and giggling like a maniac.
The alsation had grown up big - Tommy had been right about the paws. He
tried to explain it to the police, but they were more interested in
forcing him into the back of the van without getting any more vomit on
their uniforms than was absolutely necessary. He passed out in the cell
as soon as they'd manhandled him into it. It was light when he came
round and a WPC gently explained to him what he'd done. Phil sank back
down on the bench and put his head in his hands. He cried real tears
for the first time since Monica vanished.

They took his license for eighteen months, which lost him his job. They
fined him five hundred pounds, which lost him his flat and sent him
back to the bedsit he'd vowed to get Monica out of. He was given fifty
hours community service and, owing to his previous warnings for being
drunk and disorderly, asked him to attend twelve meetings. A life for a
life, he thought, ruefully. He was angry, at Tommy and at Mel and
everyone else he'd ever asked. They should have forced him to stop. Not
served him. Barred him from every pub in England. Anything. He'd asked
them time and time again if he drank too much. No-one had the bollocks
to say yes.

He glanced at the leaflet in his hand, turning it upside down to orient
himself on the map. Luckily, he'd been able to walk there, although it
had taken a good hour or so. He hadn't been able to face getting on
another bus. He'd taken one to the job centre that morning, found
himself crammed in with the pushchairs and the old folk. Outside the
community centre a small group got on with a guardian. People started
shifting uncomfortably in their seats, closing their eyes and feigning
sleep. Wondering if it was the Thursday night group from The Anchor,
Phil glanced over them. They didn't look familiar. A couple of Downs
kids and a man staring at the floor and gripping his rucksack in both
hands. There was an older man, mumbling to himself, who didn't seem to
be with them. Phil wondered how he'd got like that. Had he made himself
like it? He'd made himself like that. Drugs? Phil's stomach heaved as
he caught the mans scent. Drink. Lurching forward unsteadily Phil
grasped the bar tighter and, still swaying a little, managed to press
the bell. He'd had to get off three stops early, shuddering and
retching. He hadn't had a drink for three days. He was starting to
wonder if he would ever want to.

He squinted at the map again and looked around. This must be the right
street, with the church in the middle. There was a pub at the top and
at the bottom. He'd have to walk past at least one of them to get home.
He wondered if they'd chosen the church specifically for that reason.
He crossed the street and stared up at it. The pigeons stared back down
at him. A door opened somewhere and he heard laughter. Students. These
houses were near the university. They must watch everyone trooping in
here every Wednesday, he thought. They must know. He screwed the paper
up and jammed it into his pocket, pushed open the double doors and took
a deep breath. He was not looking forward to this.

"New?"

Phil jumped. He'd been stood in front of the notice board for five
minutes, turning his court card over and over in his pocket. Twelve
stamps, that's all he needed. Through the glass in the doors on his
left he could see them setting up. Pulling chairs into a circle. He
hesitated, immersed in the rota for the toddlers group when the woman
appeared. He glowered at her.

"Phil? Is it? I'm Anna," she held out her hand and he shook it
automatically, "come on, we're just through here."

He shrugged. What choice did he have? He followed her.

He hated the group. Anna, with her new found sobriety, was almost too
much for him to take. He might have liked sitting in the corner of some
pub with her, drinking red wine and raging at the world, but she'd
clearly left all that behind. He imagined she'd been more fun once,
less earnest. At the end of every session she would ask if he'd be
speaking next time. He just held out his card to her, mute. They'd
never spoken. There were a couple of other guys there on the scheme,
like him. About the same age. Mark was just as angry as he was to be
there and they half-arranged meeting in one of the pubs, after it was
all over. He felt stupid, as they whispered about it, like a naughty
school boy arranging a raid on the tuck shop. The other guy, Will,
welcomed the support. Just married, and with a couple of kids already,
he had a reason to be sober. Phil hated himself for it, but he envied
him.

The others were split into two camps. Sylvia, John and Frankie, old
timers who clearly needed the group as much as they'd once needed their
next drink. The other two, Paul and Ian, had been as successfully saved
as Anna. Paul was the one Phil took against most. He had another tale
of woe every session. Phil imagined he must have been the most pitiful
drunk ever. In the first six sessions alone Paul told 'How Alcohol
Destroyed My Marriage'; 'How Alcohol Stopped Me Seeing My Children';
'How Alcohol Lost Me My Job' and even, 'How Alcohol Got Me Into A Fight
With The Hardest Bouncer in Bracknell'. "He's getting them out of a
book," Mark whispered, one week. Anna shushed them. Naughty school
boys.

After the sessions were over, Phil didn't meet up with Mark for a
drink. In fact, Phil didn't even want a drink. He'd refused Anna's
offer to 'sponsor' him and had railed against the group at every turn,
but he still had his pamphlet from the first day, with his route on the
map scribbled in blue biro. It had The Twelve Steps on the inside. Phil
had tacked it to his bedroom wall. He'd agreed to Step One, grudgingly,
at his first meeting. Then he had given up. Step Two was 'come to
believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to
sanity.' This seemed a bit of a cop out. Phil wanted to get himself
back on track. He didn't want any help from outside, not from the
group, not from Anna and certainly not from Jesus. Step Three continues
'? to turn our lives over to the care of God as we understand him.'
Phil baulked at the idea. If he'd been powerless before alcohol he
didn't much fancy becoming powerless before someone else. He could take
care of himself. He'd carefully scribbled out all of the Steps, leaving
just Eight and Nine as they were. They would become part of his plan.
Next to them he stuck up his own list, which looked like this.

1) Dad
2) Mum
3) Tommey
4) Mon
5) Phil

Once he'd taken care of that, he could move on to his to-do list. He'd
been excited just starting to write that. He planned to look at
colleges, go back and study things he was really interested in. Then he
could get a proper job, and make real friends. People he didn't meet in
the pub. He was looking forward to it, could imagine himself in a suit.
But. First things first. He copied down his list of names, neatly
folded it and put it into his wallet. Then he left the house.

"Hi Dad," said Phil, feeling a little foolish and glad to be alone. He
shifted on the stone. The cold was seeping into his jeans. "Ummm?" he
said, and stopped again. He didn't know if he really believed his
father could hear him, but he knew he wanted to apologise. He was sorry
he'd never learned the lessons his father had demonstrated so clearly.
He'd done nothing to make the man proud before he died. His dad was the
worst drunk he'd ever known, frightening and noisy and ill at the end.
Really ill. Phil was sorry he'd never helped him. "I'm going to, you
know?" he ran his fingers over the grass. It was soaking wet. "I'm
going to make an effort. I've stopped drinking, and I'm gonna find a
real job. I know - I know we weren't close," he wiped his hands on his
jeans, "but I am sorry Dad. So I've come to tidy up a little." True to
his word, he knelt down, produced a trowel and spent the next two hours
tending his fathers grave.

Next, his mother.

"Bonjour?"
"Hello?"
"Hello?"
"Mum?"
"Hello?"
"Mum, it's Phil -"
"Who?"
"Phil. Your son."
"Philip?"
"Yes...Mum? Hello?"
"Well, God. What do you want? I don't hear from you in? years? and
now?"

Phil cringed. He thought he could hear tears in her voice.

"I want to say sorry Mum, you know, for not being? and? I'm
sorry?"
"You don't have to be sorry Phil. I love you, I'm your mum. I'd just
like to see you more often. I miss you?"
"You moved to France, Mum. It's difficult. You're so far away?"

Neither of them spoke for a long time. He couldn't, because his voice
hurt too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his face against
the wall. She spoke a little more, once she was over the shock. Asked
after Monica, of all people. He told her about his plans, skated over
the past. It didn't need to be explained.

"I'll pay for you to visit. Come and visit. Please, Phil, I'm so happy
you called."

"I will, Mum, I will," he promised. They said their goodbyes. He added
a flight to Nice to his to-do list. And he crossed out her name.

Phil hadn't been near a building site in years, and it was difficult to
find who he was looking for. Eventually he located him, sitting in a
pre-fab hut, drinking tea.

"You the man with the dog?" Phil asked.

"Aye," said Jim, shifting in his chair. "You want it? Big ol' paws on
her, here, have a look." He hefted the labrador onto the desk. Phil
scrutinised it, like he'd once seen Tommy do with Buster. Her paws were
big. Money changed hands, and with much wriggling and squirming, they
got the puppy into the holdall.

Tommy wouldn't come to the bar at first, when he saw who it was. It had
almost been a year since he'd seen Phil, and his wounds were still raw.
But Phil stood his ground. Managed to get out the whole speech he'd
been rehearsing, night after night. Tommy had once been his closest
friend, and he was notoriously soft hearted.

"I know nothing could ever replace Buster," Phil finished up, "but I
want to make amends, Tommy. There was this chap on a site, trying to
get rid of this little lady?" the lab stuck her head out of the bag
before her cue. Despite himself, Tommy took a step forward. The dog
surveyed him quizzically.

"I'll leave her here then?" asked Phil. Tommy nodded.

"Aye, go on with you then. I'll take care of her." He lifted her out of
the bag, cradling her to him. There was nothing more Phil could say, so
he left. He'd done his best. He drew a line through number three.

It took him an age to find Monica's house. He'd had to take the tube,
something he hadn't done in years. He'd cajoled her address out of Mel
in The Dog, who had reluctantly taken it from Debbie, who cleaned the
office Monica used to work in and found her forwarding address in a
jumbled personnel file for a tenner. He had to walk from the tube,
relying on his A-Z and hoping it was still up to date. He'd expected a
flat, but when he got there it was a house. Maybe it's been turned into
flats, he thought, as he pressed the bell.

"Oh" he said, when she opened the door. She'd cut all her hair off and
was holding a baby.

"Phil?" said Monica, with a puzzled smile. She took a step back. He saw
her knuckles whiten as she pulled the child closer to her, though her
smile stayed fixed.

"I've come to say sorry," he explained, rather helplessly. She looked
at him.

"Come in then," she sighed.

He sat there and told her everything, about getting barred from The
Anchor; about Mel in The Dog; about the police and the group and Anna.
Monica listened the whole time with her head on one side, juggling the
baby from knee to knee.

"And now, I'm going round, making amends. You know," he finished.

She looked at him.

"I don't understand? You want to say sorry to me? For what? "

"The way I treated you. I wasn't - I was young. I didn't?" he trailed
off. He felt stupid, sitting on her pristine leather sofa in his scuzzy
trainers and the jeans he'd burnt through the crotch with a stray
cigarette. He'd always seen her as the injured party, but now he had
the creeping feeling it was him all along. Suddenly he knew what Tommy
had always put off telling him. He swallowed, hard. This was a Monica
he didn't know. He saw a flash of gold as she pushed her hair back
behind her ear with her left hand. She kept glancing at the door.

"I'd better go," he said, standing up. She stood up too, resting the
baby on her hip. It glowered up at him. He hadn't known how to make
amends to her. Now he was unsure whether that even mattered.

"You don't have to be sorry, Phil," she said, holding out her hand
formally. "It's over. It's in the past. Forgotten. I appreciate what I
have now. That's all."

He took her hand and shook it stiffly, and she laughed a little.

"Who else is on your list?"

"Hm? Oh, just one more," he reached into his pocket and held it out to
her. She looked up at him and smiled properly.

"Sounds like the most important one, huh?" she paused, with one hand on
the door handle. "Listen, you want to do it here? There's a mirror
upstairs, in the bathroom."

He considered.

"Nah, Monica. I have to do it myself."

She nodded. She understood.

At the gate he turned back and waved. Then he turned and strode off
purposefully, in search of himself.