Box Step Fox Trot , Tango Echo, Roger X-ray

Story by Big M

Merv had been standing behind the bar, absent-mindedly polishing the same glass, for about twenty minutes. Foodge was starting to get a little worried, as Merv had shown no interest in his plans to enter the 2016 Disabled Olympics as a caber tosser, nor had Merv even commented on Foodge’s new ‘Green ‘n’ Gold Oh-Limpic Tracksuit, which he now wore, as part of his tilt towards 2016. Foodge was loath to discuss another bloke’s feelings, but had an excellent opener for these sorts of discussions. “So…how are you feeling, mate?” Foodge enquired, as he struggled to balance a lump of egg white on top of an over-crispy fork full of bacon.

Merv continued to stare straight ahead, whilst the cloth in his hand risked wearing through the wall of the pint glass. He suddenly realised that someone was speaking, and jerked his head around to face Foodge. “Sorry, mate, a thousands miles away…another pint?” As he swept the empty glass away from the bar, and started to fill another, all in one deft movement.

“Mmmm…yes…ah.” Foodge had already forgotten what he was asking, as men often do where feelings are concerned. He was concentrating on the last mushroom that seemed to manage to evade being spiked onto his fork. “No, are there any more eggs? You see, this caveman diet is absolutely terrific, no bread, grains, eat as much as you like…goes with the training.” Foodge flexed a bicep.

“You won’t be needin’ this, then.” As Merv took back the freshly poured pint of Trotter’s Best, slopping a little onto the old, hardwood bar. “I don’t think cavemen drank much beer, do you? Besides, I’ll bet they didn’t sit around inside eatin’ bacon ‘n’ eggs, an’ drinkin’ pints!”

Foodge was suddenly desperate for a conversation change, and then remembered his previous question. “Sorry, Merv, I was asking before, how do you feel?”

Merv sat the pint back down in front of Foodge, who eagerly picked it up, and skulled half of its contents. “How do I feel? I’m glad someone asked. A little bit empty, at the moment, Foodge. Not depressed, or nothin’, but, as I get older I just wonder what the heck I’ve done with me life. I know, you may look at me, and think, ‘there’s a man with everything’, and you’re right, I’ve got the pub, Granny’s like a mum to me, and I’m clearly punching above me weight with Janet, she’s bloody gorgeous, and much easier to live with now that she’s topped screamin’ all of the time, and the twins are great, an’ I don’t mind the three hourly feeds, every night, no, you’d be right to envy me, mate.”

Foodge shifted uncomfortably on the timber bar stool, painfully aware that there was still room in his caveman-like digestive tract for a couple more eggs and bacon, but not for any of those little mushrooms. “Empty plates here, Merv.” As he nodded towards the plate. “Wouldn’t be a bit more bacon, and a couple of eggs left in the kitchen?”

“Sorry, mate.” Merv took up the plate, and cutlery, slipped them into the dum waiter behind the bar, and wrote out a chit for another round of bacon and eggs  ‘for our Olympian’. Foodge’s latest craze hadn’t gone un-noticed by Granny, who’d laughed until she was hoarse when she’d heard of Foodge’s plans to become a caber tosser. She reckoned he couldn’t throw a walking stick, let a lone a great lump of wood. Merv turned back to the bar to continue his monologue. “I just can’t help thinkin’ that I coulda done something big, you know, like if I’d stayed with the coppers, I’d probably be a DCI by now.” Merv rarely mentioned the pleece, as he’d left in disgrace.

“Or, perhaps I shoulda kept me boxin’ career goin’, you know, turned professional, and all that?” Merv had failed to remember that he’d left boxing after being cheated out of more that a few victories. “I used to be a bloody good ballroom dancer!” Merv’s eyes lit up, as he stepped out from behind the bar to waltz elegantly around the room, expertly navigating his way around a couple of Bowling ladies, who’d wandered into the Main Bar to ask Merv if he could put the urn on, and get the sachets of International Gold Roast, and little packets of sugar out from behind the bar. “Certainly, ladies.”  Merv grabbed Beryl and took her for a quick spin.

Merv returned to the Main Bar, having filled the urn, put out the coffee cups, and associated bits and pieces. Foodge was just finishing his third plate of bacon and eggs, and once again, had an empty glass in front of him. Merv filled another pint, and took away the plate and cutlery. “Ah. Yes. Dancing lightens the heart.” Merv missed his ballroom dancing, and really wished that Janet would give it another try. He’d never really worked out why she fell over every time she tried to dance. Was it her left eye, that unsettled her whilst it continued to ‘do it’s own thing’, seemingly disconnected from the right?

Merv sighed, as he ran a cloth over the bar, more out of habit, than need. “Pity I never ‘ad the edjacashun, you know, ‘avin’ to leave school when I was fifteen, an’ all that.” Merv had always been painfully aware of his lack of formal education, in spite of the fact that, as a weight lifter, he knew every bone and muscle in the human body, and had a natural gift for mathematics, eschewing modern cash registers, ‘because I can work it out in me noggin’’.

“You know it’s not to late.” Foodge took a sip from his fourth Trotter’s, grateful that Merv seemed to have forgotten to limit his intake of alcohol during his discourse.

“Too late for what?” Merv was surprised to be interrupted, as he had taken centre stage all through lunch.

“Education.” Foodge retorted. “You could do something through TAFE, or a Community College, or Open Foundation at one of the unis.”

“Nah.” Merv shook his head, and took up a pint glass, which he began to rhythmically polish. “That’s for kids, not for us old blokes.

“Well, I was just reading on the weekend about a ninety year old who has just completed his second Master’s degree. He didn’t start any formal learning until he was sixty five!”

Merv suddenly felt like he was standing on a high diving board, both exhilarated and frightened at the same time. “I’d need some ‘elp, you know, me spellin’s no good…”

“I’d help.” Foodge quietly smiled.

“You, how could you help?”

“Merv, you seem to forget that I wasn’t always a shamus, I had to do a couple of degrees to get to be the Deputy Director of Public Prosecution. Yes, humble reader, Foodge’s fall from grace has been quite spectacular. “I could help with English, and essay writing, used to be pretty good.” Foodge took a long pull on his fifth pint. ”Ended up doing an honours degree in English Literature, even got invited to do a doctorate, but, you know, the pull of the law, public office and all of that.”

They were suddenly interrupted by a slightly red faced Beryl. “Oh…err… Mr Merv, the Ladies and I were just wondering, if…you know…. well, you’re so light on your feet…”

Merv took up the challenge, kicked the jukebox into gear and started foxtrotting with Beryl around the bar; whilst the other Bowling Ladies lined up, ready to ‘cut in’. Merv had a grin from ear to ear. Foodge shifted himself around on the barstool so he could watch the spectacle, but managed to miss the footrest, and found himself in a crumpled mess on the floor, again!