Holy Joe and Honest John

One rather crisp Saturday morning in December found me down at the local library, returning a book that was several weeks overdue. The tardy tome had fallen between the bars of the headboard one night, and it lay hidden from view until I received a letter from the library reminding me of its existence. A prompt search turned up the missing volume, and I returned it to the Dewey Decimal fold the very next day.

Having been forgiven for my absent-mindedness, I engaged in some light badinage with the librarian, who was new to that branch, and, I learned, to the area.

“Brakelight,” she said, noticing the surname as she got up my member details to remove the returned title from her AWOL list, “that’s unusual; surely it’s not your real name.”

I’ve had queries as to the origin of my surname all my life, and I have an answer that satisfies every time. You see, a decade or so ago, my younger sibling Gwendolyn was bitten by the genealogy bug, and she delved deep into the family closet, unearthing names and disturbing long silent skeletons in her relentless quest for clarification on the surname issue.

What she discovered, and I’ve memorised the details so I can answer queries accurately, is that in 1842, one George Halliday Brake married an Eliza Jane Light at St Bartholemew’s Church in an English village whose name escapes me. They became Mr and Mrs Brake-Light with a hyphen. Census records show that by1871 the hyphen had been dropped on our side of the family, so there were Brakelights in operation many years before a foot pressed a pedal to slow a motor car. I relayed these details to the librarian.

“That’s fascinating,” she said with a smile, and I took her fascination to be genuine, “but people must assume that it relates to the brake lights on a car, yes?”

“They do,” I said, “but as a family, we’ve never suffered anything more than gentle ribbing because of our surname. Apart from my uncle Dickie that is; he’s had a lifetime of leg-pulling, having been asked since school if he’s passed his MOT yet. And what happens when he gets pulled over by the police is anyone’s guess.” The girl laughed, and I have to say I was becoming quite sweet on her.

That’s hilarious,” she said, the shift in adjectives widening the smile, but it wasn't to last. Had my banter with the librarian been a parade, the cloud that would rain on it appeared when some middle-aged killjoy sidled up on my left. He wore a blue tracksuit that wasn’t in keeping with his physique, which was far from athletic. A flabby neck protruded from the collar of the jacket, and a distended paunch tested the durability of the zip. He dropped a pair of hardback books onto the counter, and the resultant thump signalled the end of my conversation with the librarian as surely as the full-time whistle marks the end of a football game. It was with some sadness that I bade the young lady goodbye, gave the merest of waves, and left the building. On the way out, I made a mental note to become a more regular habitué of the old lending library.

Ten minutes later, I was in the supermarket, picking up eatables with which to replenish the pantry at home. I’d come to a halt in the sauces and preserves aisle, and I must report that my heart, hitherto filled with joy following my pleasantries with the librarian, sank. In fact, I was entering a mini-crisis. The word that would best describe my condition at that moment is peeved.

The cause of my irritation was that the shelves were completely devoid of marmalade containing shreds of peel. Now, to me, the serving of that orange preserve minus those chewy bursts of bitterness is a heinous culinary crime akin to bringing the Christmas pudding to the table unlit, or eating ginger biscuits without dunking.

If you think it a bit off for someone to be getting het up over a jar of marmalade, then you haven’t seen Jeffery Brakelight at breakfast. My routine most mornings is to attack a bowl of porridge oats, followed by a brace of toast and marmalade with a cup or two of piping hot earl grey tea, and that’s me ready to face the day.

A fellow shopper pushing a trolley gave a polite cough by way of encouraging me to move on so she could peruse the preserves for herself. I reluctantly picked up a jar of shred-free marmalade, and popped it into my basket, telling myself that marmalade sans shred is better than no marmalade at all, but only just. As I proceeded towards aisle nine (tinned fruit), my basket came into collision with that of another shopper, who turned out to be none other than my old friend and sometimes drinking partner, Silas James ‘Sporty’ Porter.

You may recall that Sporty and I had recently embarked on an undercover mission to test the fidelity of his new fiancee, Pansy Trucklethorne. It came as no surprise to me that she failed the test, but it was best the truth came out. Now, here was my former best man back at his jovial old singleton self.

“Ah, Jeff,” he said, “I’ve been trying to call you.”

“I’m not home.”

“Well, I can see that, you ninny,” he said, “but now that I’ve found you, brace yourself. I have a rather unsavoury favour to ask.”

“Go on.”

“Holy Joe is on his way into town, and he’s asked if I could arrange a lift from the station this afternoon. You have a car, so I thought—”

“Well thanks a bundle, old mate,” I said, in a tone that expressed my disgruntlement. The Holy Joe referred to is less a man of the cloth, and more a man to be avoided. Joseph Eldon Hole, to give him his full title, is Sporty’s cousin. When Joe was a young man, his father moved the family to Sheffield, but he occasionally comes back up to visit Sporty’s parents. He is a braggart, a fantasist, and a terrible bore, whose egotistical claptrap serves as a high-grade friend-repellent.

To give an example of the man’s unpopularity, let me tell you of an incident at a wedding reception one afternoon, when Joe was in the process of regaling his table with the tale of how he had once won a school cross-country race, despite losing a shoe when trotting across a boggy field.

A guest started choking on the pastry of a goat’s cheese tartlet starter and was clearly in some distress. A burly, rugby-player type stepped up, and successfully administered the Heimlich manoeuvre which cleared the young man’s airway and triggered a collective sigh of relief at the table. A bridesmaid then guided the guest, purple-faced and gasping, outside for some fresh air. As the recovering choker walked toward the exit loosening his tie, the rest of the table looked on in sheer envy, wishing to a man it had been he that had almost choked to death.

Sporty told me that the reason for Joe’s visit is that he’d been dumped by a fiancee for whom he'd shown deep fondness. Not knowing the whereabouts of the local Foreign Legion recruiting office, Joe had decided to come up north to forget. He was going to stay with Sporty’s parents until his broken heart was healed.

It had been a very short engagement, which lasted barely a week. According to the grapevine, and photos sent to Sporty’s mother, Joe’s intended was a secretary at the brewery where he worked as a drayman, one Heidi Petersen. She was, by all accounts, a bright, bubbly, and pretty girl, and the general consensus was that the smitten Joe had landed quite a catch. Everyone wished the couple well, not least because a fresh pair of ears would be assigned to absorb Joe’s awful yarns. But it wasn’t to be.

Although she was rather slow to twig, when the girl realised that getting hitched to Joe would mean bearing the name Heidi Hole for the rest of her natural, she promptly withdrew her participation in the project and returned the ring to her heartbroken former beau.

So, Holy Joe is coming back to town, and his arrival will have an impact. I’m not saying that the streets will be deserted for the duration of his stay, but the landlord of the Feathers will be braced for a dip in takings, as customers avoid the company of the visiting pub bore and drink elsewhere. Decent people are simply unable to stomach the man’s falsehoods, the credulity of which diminishes after each drink he consumes, and yet every yarn he spins is delivered earnestly.

Later that day, I drove the old Astra toward the station with Sporty in the passenger seat. As we chatted, my friend revealed that his mother had just offered him a financial inducement to make Joe’s stay a short one. I asked for details.

“She’ll give me eighty quid if he’s gone by Wednesday, and a ton if he's on the train home by Monday,” he said. I know Joe is unpopular, but I was taken aback by the lack of support shown by aunt for nephew.

“But, why?” I said.

“You see, Jeff,” he said, “my parents have slept in separate rooms for a few years now, on account of my dad’s snoring. It’s horrendous. If you can imagine a jumbo jet taking off on the inhale, and a pneumatic drill on the exhale, you have an idea of the din that would serenade my mother at bedtime.”

“Blimey. Bad luck for your ma.”

“Indeed. In her view, a return to the matrimonial bed would be akin to walking through the gates of Hell. Joe will be billeted in the spare room for the duration of his stay, and with it being an open-ended visit, Mater is prepared to stump up the readies to make it a short one. The old man thinks highly of his sister's progeny, so he'll be in no hurry to see him gone, but, I need funds for my summer holiday, so I’m up for a bit of treachery. Oh, and any helpful suggestions from your good self would be welcomed.”

“Of course, old mate,” I said, “if I can help, I shall.”

I parked the car outside the station, and we waited for our passenger. Sporty steered the conversation away from our scheme to have Joe removed ASAP, and we talked about football. After a wait of some five minutes, a rap on the rear window announced the arrival of the forsaken fabulist, and I have to say he didn’t seem too downhearted considering recent events. Sporty stepped out of the car to greet his cousin, who smiled broadly during a vigorous handshake. With luggage and passenger safely aboard, Sporty asked Joe the reason for his cheery disposition. A beaming Joe said he’d just won twenty pounds in a best-of-three arm-wrestling contest with a young farm labourer in the buffet car of the train. That tale may actually have been true, and here’s why.

You may have been wondering why people tolerate Joe’s nonsense, and why no one calls him out on his lies. Well, the reason is that Joseph E Hole is something of a muscular specimen, his physique no doubt attributed to chucking beer kegs around all day. He’s also a handful in a bundle, as could be attested to by regulars at virtually every pub in the locality before he moved away. One Sunday afternoon, a foolhardy young man did challenge Joe in the bar of the Feathers on his claim that he’d had a trial at Nottingham Forest. Joe promptly invited the doubter to continue the discussion in the car park. The youth declined.

So, if you were to request a simple phrase as to why, in a nutshell, I and others in the Feathers are reluctant to challenge Joe on the absurd tales he comes out with, that phrase would be collective timidity. It’s less troublesome for us, and we stand a greater chance of keeping our facial features in the places nature stuck them if we simply ignore the fantasies of the man.

After dropping off my passengers, I headed homeward, my ears already worn out after extended audio highlights of the great arm-wrestling bout. Later that afternoon, following a recuperative nap, I was lowering a basket of chips into the deep fat fryer when the door-entry intercom went. It was Sporty, so I buzzed him in and he entered the flat wearing the look of a man who has beans to spill. When I asked what was up, he told me he’d been mulling over possibilities as to what might make Joe’s stay a short one, and an idea had come to mind that might just do the trick. I brewed up a brace of earl greys, and we sat at the kitchen table. Between sips, Sporty elaborated.

“Are you familiar with a saying applied to females who’ve been dumped that runs along the lines of the best way to get over a man is to get under one?” he said. I nodded. “Well, I expect the premise would hold true if the sexes were reversed, so that could be the key to the curtailment of Joe's visit; we simply get him fixed up with a lady of dubious character. Once he’s sown his wild oats, he’ll realise that the beach is indeed strewn with plenty more pebbles, and he’ll be over his heartbreak in a flash and back on the first train south.” I considered the suggestion as I tipped hot chips into a bowl.

“It might work,” I said, “but who would offer themselves to such a tedious braggart?” There was a short pause, after which we said in unison,

“Pansy Trucklethorne.”

After a liberal application of salt and ketchup to the chips, I placed the bowl on the table, where Sporty played a starring role in devouring its contents.

“I think we should point your cousin in the direction of the disco at the Feathers tonight, where Pansy is a regular,” I said, “see if we can’t pair them up.” Sporty nodded.

“We’ll give it a shot,” he said, grimacing with a hot chip in his mouth.

And so, early that evening, Sporty and I took Joe along to the Feathers, where the disco had just started. I was pleased to observe that Pansy was in attendance and that she wasn’t in the company of a hopeful suitor, but rather she chatted with a female friend. I led our small group up to the bar, where Sporty and I positioned ourselves in such a way that Joe stood right next to Pansy.

Putting what comes out of his mouth aside, Holy Joe is possessed of rugged good looks, having a mop of strawberry blond hair and carefully cultivated stubble. On this occasion, his developed torso filled a smart jacket in a manner that flattered. For her part, Pansy was her usual alluring self, so it was all but inevitable the pair would engage, especially as Sporty and I would be giving them every encouragement.

But encouragement wasn't called for, as almost immediately Pansy and Joe exchanged pleasantries. By the time the bartender had popped the caps from our lager bottles, the pair were deep in conversation, which they took to the dance floor.

As we watched the new friends vanish into the crowd of gyrators, Sporty and I clinked the bases of our bottles together. Daring to lapse into mission accomplished mode, we sat at a table some way from the dance floor, where we relaxed, while keeping an eye on proceedings vis-a-vis the twisting twosome.

After their dance, Sporty and I were pleased to see the pair sit at a table over by the bar some distance from ours. They chatted and laughed, and Joe stood the drinks. Clearly, they were getting on famously.

Everything seemed to be going to plan for fifteen minutes or so, but then something happened when Joe got up and disappeared down a corridor at the end of which stood the gents’ toilet. Sporty and I watched in dismay, but little surprise, as Pansy rose, grabbed her coat and handbag, and threw what was left of her drink down her throat. She then marched purposefully toward the exit, wearing an expression that might be observed on someone who had reached the end of their tether.

“Everything all right, Pansy?” I said as she passed our table. Her immediate approach caused Sporty to shrink into his seat somewhat, given his recent short-lived engagement to the young lady.

“I can’t stand it, Jeff. I’ve had enough,” she said, pulling on her coat. “He’s simply full of it.”

“Full of what?” I said, knowing the answer already.

“The stuff that comes out of the end of the bull that doesn’t snort,” she said. “I’m off to the Horse and Cow.” With those words, she walked through the doors and into the night.

Soon after Pansy’s departure, Joe emerged and returned to his table. He looked around briefly, but the absence of a coat, handbag, drink, and girl was as good as a Dear John letter, and he accepted the development with a shrug. Sporty and I were relieved to see that our own version of Billy Liar had opted to stand at the end of the bar, from where he could scan likely conquests on the dance floor, rather than come and sit with us.

With Joe safely at arm’s length, Sporty got in another round of beers and we attempted to devise some sort of plan B, but after a good ten minutes, no ideas were forthcoming. Then, I felt a light kick on my shin, and Sporty indicated with a nod that Joe was coming over.

“All right, boys,” Joe said, “let me refresh your bottles.” He seemed in fine spirits, and I wondered if he’d been arm-wrestling again.

“Thanks, Joe,” Sporty said. “What’s brought this on?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “sometimes things just happen that raise a fellow’s spirits.” At this point, I noticed Joe had a young woman in tow. There was hope yet.

Joe’s new friend had been partly hidden behind his ample frame, but when she came into full view my heart sank for the second time that day. I’m sure you can imagine my utter dismay on seeing that the lady tagging along, whom Joe introduced as Sonia, was none other than the librarian from that morning. She recognised me and laughed.

“Oh, hello, you,” she said, “we’ve taken your name off our most wanted list.” I cursed my bad luck. Had she made that joke unaccompanied, I would have made some sort of witty comeback. As things stood, I didn’t dare tread on Holy Joe’s toes, so I just smiled weakly. But inside, I was burning with anger. Afire with ire, as you might say.

I’d only had the briefest of exchanges with the librarian earlier that day, but I have to say that this development left me as wounded as old Charlie Bovary when he discovered the batch of love letters that confirmed his late wife's adultery. As I contemplated slipping paraquat into Joe’s drink, the deejay let loose with a rather lively number, during the chorus of which the singer declares his admiration for the paws of one of the big cats. Joe asked Sporty and me to mind the drinks while he and Sonia cut the rug together, and off they went. My discomfiture didn’t make it past Sporty’s radar.

“What’s up with you?” he said.

“That’s her,” I said, “the librarian from this morning.”

“What, the one you’ve been gushing over all day?”

“The same. And she’s with, with him.”

“I shouldn’t worry. She’ll dump him as soon as he tells of how he won Mister Universe from his hospital bed or some such nonsense.”

“But our plan was to get Joe fixed up with someone for sexual gratification to help him forget about his break up. If we invert your earlier phrase and assume that the best way for a man to get over a woman is to get over a different one, I’d rather that woman wasn’t Sonia.

“What’s it to you?”

“Well, I had high hopes for myself in that department, hence the earlier gushing."

The song finished, and the dancers made their way back to the table, the female half looking rather flushed from exertion. I guzzled what was left of my beer.

“Phew!” Sonia said, “I enjoyed that.” I didn’t want to witness my crush enjoying herself when Holy Joe was the cause of it, so I made an excuse to leave.

“We’re just off,” I said. “Going over to the Horse and Cow for one.” Sporty drained his bottle and as we rose, Sonia spoke.

“May we come along? I’d like to see all the local night spots and fleshpots.” Joe didn’t seem over-enthusiastic, but he and Sonia finished their drinks, and a chattering quartet strolled down the lane towards an illuminated pub sign at the bottom.

The bar of the Horse and Cow was busy. The place had been done up like a traditional English pub, with false wooden beams on the ceiling, and horse brasses on the walls. There was no music, but only the clinking of glasses being collected, and the hum of conversation, occasionally punctuated by the roar of a man announcing the winning numbers on a blind card. The cacophony drowned out the commentary of a football game that was being shown on television. I spotted Pansy throwing darts with a young lad, and four old hands were playing dominoes at a table.

I bought drinks for all, feeling obliged to match Joe’s earlier round, and we sat at one of only two vacant tables. Sonia took an immediate liking to the place. “Oh, I just love this ambiance,” she said. “I’ll bet it’s haunted.”

As it happened, there was a legend of a ghost, not in the pub, but in the churchyard opposite. I began telling the tale of the phantom to Sonia, but I had barely set the scene before there was a commotion that held up my narrative.

One of the domino players had fallen from his stool and he lay on his back on the floorboards, clearly in an advanced state of intoxication. Those around him demonstrated a distinct lack of concern for the welfare of their fallen friend by letting out a loud cheer. One player barked a request for Mary the barmaid to call a cab, and then he and another picked up the supine sot and carried him outside to await his ride home. With the excitement over, I continued my ghostly tale.

A few minutes later, the two absent domino players returned and retook their seats. “Who’s next?” one of them shouted. “There’s a spare seat at the table.” A murmur rippled through the clientele, but there were no takers.

“Why don’t you have a go?” Sonia said to Joe.

"I’m the dominoes champion at my local in Sheffield,” Joe said, “I’d wipe the floor with them,"

Several people overheard this boastful claim, and a man in a flat cap immediately patted Joe on the back and announced here’s a contender. There was a loud cheer, and Joe made his way to the domino table, although his demeanour did not reflect the confidence of his most recent utterance. As the new addition took his seat, a group of spectators closed around the table.

“I’ve never seen such interest in a game of dominoes,” Sonia said. I laughed, and I told her that the game they are about to play is not a friendly contest, but a variation of a game called Honest John. I took her expression to be an invitation to elaborate.

“Here’s how it works,” I said. “Four players partake in a normal game of dominoes. When someone lays their final tile, the others count the number of spots on their remaining dominoes, and the player with the highest tally is eliminated. After three such games, an overall winner is established.”

“Right,” Sonia said, “I get that.”

“But here’s the twist. The first player to be eliminated nominates one half of a drink, and the next to drop out nominates the other half. The runner-up buys the concoction, and the winner must down it in one.”

A cheer erupted as Joe drank a cocktail of sorts.

“I see. So that guy they carried out must have been a good player."

“I suspect he was less a good player, and more a sap. You see, those old foxes find amusement by working as a team to manipulate games so the unsuspecting dupe ends up getting blind drunk, or having to swallow the most unpalatable concoctions. Any liquid that is available behind the bar is fair game, as long as it’s not poisonous, and the one who has to drink it can’t back out. I've noticed that Joe's just won two games on the spin, not knowing he’s playing the patsy.”

“Let’s go watch,” Sonia said, and we rose. Sporty was more interested in the football, and so he stayed put as Sonia and I shuffled through the spectators until we stood right at the table.

Our representative in the contest didn’t look well at all. I learned that his swallowing of a double gin, topped up with milk had been the trigger for the recent cheer. The bar sold tea and coffee, so milk was an acceptable ingredient in Honest John.

Joe announced that this would be his last game, as the milk was sitting uncomfortably on top of the Bailey's and Tabasco sauce he’d swallowed after winning the first game. As Sonia and I watched, one of the old hands went out of the game and he chose whisky as the first part of the forthcoming drink. When the next man fell, he caused quite a stir by nominating the liquid from a jar of cockles as the other half of the concoction. A few minutes later, it fell upon Joe to drink the awful mix.

The runner-up bought a whisky, and then he carefully drained a jar of cockles, directing the liquid into the glass. On completion, the man, who looked rather pleased with himself, stirred the drink with a swizzle stick, and then placed the glass on the table in front of Joe. “There you go, mate, get that down yer,” he said. Joe stared at the cloudy mix.

“I can’t,” Joe said, applying a full stop to the statement with a hiccup.

“You have to,” the purchaser of the drink said, before throwing a cockle from a cupped hand into his mouth like it was peanut. Joe picked up the glass and his audience offered encouragement by chanting in unison, chug, chug, chug. Joe put the glass to his lips, and a beer-fuelled roar went up as he tipped the contents into his mouth. As the cheer reached its crescendo, it morphed seamlessly into an equally mighty groan.

Joe had swallowed half of the drink before his stomach went into reverse. The poor sap’s eyes looked like they would pop out of his head, and his cheeks bulged like those I'd seen in photos of Dizzy Gillespie. He turned to run to the toilets, but before he had taken his first step, a jet of vomit gushed from his mouth, all over Sonia’s hair, and down the front of her dress.

I watched in astonishment, as Joe moved quickly through the throng of spectators and Sonia screamed. Watery spew dribbled down her new dress, and some made its way inside, the liquid part running into her cleavage. Old Tom, the red-faced landlord, was quickly on the scene with a mop and zinc bucket. He barked out a decree that anyone playing Honest John in the future would be barred for a year. Barmaid Mary, wife of the aforementioned, ushered Sonia upstairs to get cleaned up.

The sensation had passed, and normality resumed. There was no sign of Holy Joe, and Sporty lived up to his name by sportingly retiring to the Feathers, thus leaving the field open for me to make a go of strengthening relations with Sonia.

After I’d watched the entire second half of the football game, Sonia finally returned, freshly showered and with her dress hot from the tumble dryer. “What a lovely lady,” she said, referring to her rescuer. I offered to buy her a drink. “No thanks,” she said, “I’d like to go home.”

“All right,” I said, “I’ll call a cab.”

“I really appreciate this, Jeff,” she said, “waiting for me so I wasn’t left alone in a strange bar.” I shrugged.

“It’s all right,” I said. To be honest, there had been an ulterior motive for my hanging back; a desire to get to know Sonia better. But, all brownie points count, no matter how they are earned.

Ten minutes later, we were mobile. Not wishing to appear forward, I sat in the passenger seat and Sonia climbed into the back. As we entered the housing estate where Sonia lived, she pressed a note into my hand. I resisted, telling her that I would pay the fare. When I looked down, I saw that it wasn’t a banknote, but a slip of paper with something written on it. It was a phone number.

“I’ll be at work every day except Thursday next week,” she said, “and my lunch break is from one till two. We could go for coffee if you like.”

I liked. I liked very much.

When the car pulled up, Sonia leaned forward and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said.

The following day, I rang Sporty to tell him how Sonia and I had hit it off. He relayed the further good news that Holy Joe would be heading home on Monday morning, netting him the full ton from Mrs P. He asked if I would run his cousin to the station and, as I was in the most excellent of spirits, I agreed. After the call, I walked on air, yes, on air into the kitchen, where I sang as I set about making lunch.