Free Squelch by John Halkin Page A

everything. That was more than she could say of some. Raising the glass to her lips, she said: ‘Here’s to you, Harry! Always had a soft spot for your Liz, didn’t you?’
    ‘That’s right! We had many a good grope, eh Liz?’
    ‘Dirty bugger!’ she spat at him.
    He sipped his large whisky. ‘Ay, but we’re no longer as young as we were then, more’s the pity. That’s life.’
    ‘Young girl came in to see me in hospital,’ she told them, remembering. Thinking it over. ‘Some relation o’ Dr Rendell’s, she said. Kept going on about them moths, saying as how they didn’t attack me at all, and how nice they were and all that Sunday School stuff. Daft kid.’
    They weren’t listening. The man Harry Smith was expecting had arrived and they went off into a corner to talk privately. He was a younger man than Harry, in cavalry twill and a flat cap, the kind who’d talk a farmerinto mortgaging his last field to pay for a new tractor he didn’t need. Ay, she’d seen them all, she had. Slipped upstairs with a few back in her barmaid days. Saved quite a little nest egg. Men? If they want it they’ll pay for it, so why give it to ’em free?
    ‘Charlie!’ Jesus, those bloody doctors should’ve patched her up better than this. Getting up was murder, even with her two sticks. That gelding was to blame; she’d told him so, too. ‘Charlie, take me drink into the garden, would you, love? It’s too stuffy in here. I’ve got me hot flushes coming on.’
    The seats out in the pub garden at the back were a bit on the rough side, not as comfortable as in the bar, but she found one in the long shadow cast by a couple of apple trees and sank gratefully on to it. Charlie put her glass down on the shaky table beside her, and didn’t forget the bottle either. Through the open window came Harry’s loud voice arguing about delivery dates. She still couldn’t fathom why he’d chosen to come in here rather than the Red Lion.
    She leaned back on the rough wooden seat humming some tune or other, she couldn’t put a name to it. Ten years old she must have been, she and Harry both. Back row of the class, sharing one of those double desks. She’d never forget that look of concentration on his face as he pretended to be interested in the blackboard while all the time his left hand was exploring her leg under that short frock she always wore. Pushed him away that morning, she had – she could no longer remember why – so he’d fumbled with his fly buttons till suddenly he had his thing out. She’d giggled. That was a hot day too, now she thought of it. ‘He’s come up for air,’ he’d whispered so loud, the whole class had heard him. ‘Can’t breathe in there.’ God yes, and she could remember Teacher’s words now, clear as yesterday. ‘Harry Smith – is that youtalking again? Stand up, boy! Stand
up
!’ And Harry stood up, stung into quick obedience by her tone of command, not thinking. They all saw him, turning around to stare at his bit o’ white meat. Of course they laughed, all but Teacher. ‘Kindly adjust your clothing and stand outside the door till I call you.’ Her very words.
    It had brought everything back, seeing Harry again. After all, what was the harm? It was only a little boy’s prick he’d had then, nothing for the lady teacher to get excited about. A giggle, that’s all – and here she was, supping her Guinness, still remembering it.
    Oh hell, that bloody leg was bothering her again. If it wasn’t aching, it was pins-and-needles, this time on the soft flesh above her stocking-top. She tried to scratch it through her skirt, but that only made it worse. A quick, sharp pain cut into her, causing her to swear. Involuntarily her foot jerked forward, kicking the table. Her glass fell, spilling the Guinness over her.
    Another sharp bite, and this time she screamed in agony. It just went on and never seemed to end, chewing into her leg like a slow-turning drill. Then a second drill started up –