“Do you think I drink too much?”fficeffice" />

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.’ ffice:smarttags" />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. Lurched 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.