The light peered through the mist, a beacon of warmth in the gloomy streets of Edwardian South London. Phillip cursed the impulse that had spurred him to England's capital without a plan, with little money for food, or more importantly he realised, lodgings. He paused at the door, apprehensive as to the reception he might receive as an unknown face. He needn't have worried, for when he stepped into the smoke, noise and bar smells, which wrapped their arms around him in welcome, he was ignored by everyone except a single barman.
Inside the pub -- a rough place of the spit and sawdust variety -- the young man, on the cusp of his twenties, tried his best to appear as though he belonged. He stood on the periphery of a crowd of raucous navvies, all of whom were at the merry stage of drunkenness. No doubt the bonhomie would turn sour in an hour or so, with fistfights and curses punctuating the haze of blue smoke that hung in the air, but for now the pub was full of boozy good cheer. Reconciling the trade between half-an-hour in the warm and his meagre budget the lad ordered a drink. A pint of black and tan like a creamy-topped pudding sat half-drunk in front of the youngster while he pondered his next move. Having come to London on a whim, he found himself alone and a little scared in the rowdy boozer on the south side of the Thames. His most pressing concern now was where to spend the night.
A dog sat on its haunches near the door and, using the shadow as cover, observed the scene through intelligent eyes. Its gaze settled on the nervous lad. The animal raised its muzzle and sniffed the blue air.
While the dog's black nose twitched, its attention focused on the boy, the barman spotted the beast and roared a curse.
"Get out, you fucker!" he bellowed and, armed with a broom, lifted the hinged, trapdoor cover of the bar counter to advance.
The animal rose to stand on all four paws. Unworried by the shout and the makeshift weapon, it stood square on and stared at the man. Intimidated by the size of the animal and its calm, level gaze, the barman stopped in his tracks. The hairy brute seemed to be ... amused? As if it would equally happy to rip his throat out or to leave peacefully. The man's life meant nothing to the dog. It had other business.
The short impasse was broken when the door banged open and a new arrival entered and diverted attention. As the inebriated Irishmen shouted insults in welcome to the late-comer, the dog took its cue and slid out through the open door and into the unwelcoming arms of a cold London night.
"That cunt woulda ripped your guts open," a voice called in Irish brogue.
"Sired by a fuckin' bear, t'be sure," another voice agreed.
The barman, relieved that the shaggy haired brute had left of its own accord, returned to his post. Just as the cover banged down signalling his return to duty, the door to the street opened again. This time it was a giant of a man who entered. He strode forward, confident that his long, wild, black hair, matching beard, and his mere physical presence assured him a place at the bar ... and speedy service.
He stood between the young man and the rowdy Irishmen. "Black and tan," the man grumbled in a deep voice. He turned to his neighbour. "You want another, son?" The giant slapped coins onto the sticky counter while the boy blinked in surprise and some agitation. "Give him the same again," the man instructed the barman, who tilted a glass tankard under the spigot and yanked at the pump. "What brings you to town?" the giant asked.
"Who says I'm not from round here?"
A foaming glass found its way into the great man's hand. The pot looked more like a half measure than a pint in his huge fist. He grinned wryly at the puny belligerence of his new found companion. "Where you from, kiddo? What's your name?"
"Aldershot," the boy replied, his truculence slipping away. "And my name's Phillip Traynor."
"Here's your ale, lad," the barman offered and placed a fresh brew next to the one only half drunk.
"Don't fancy the army then?" the big man said teasingly, Aldershot being the famed garrison town.
"Not much," said the lad seriously. "Thought I'd try my luck at labouring on the railway. I heard there was a lot of work on the cut and cover, or mebbe the new station."
The man sipped at the beer; the meniscus dropped by three inches. He smacked his lips in appreciation. "Money's not bad labouring, and you won't get your head shot off," he quipped. "One of these mad bastards might take your head off, mind. If you're stupid enough to fight 'em." He indicated the crowd behind him with a jerk of his shaggy mane. Two more gulps and the beer was gone. The man eyed Phillip's untouched pint and its predecessor. "One for the road?"
Phillip shifted uncomfortably. "I don't have any spare money for beer," he said.
"Well, Phil, me young friend, you just sup what you got there, old Doggett will buy hisself another and we can have a chinwag." The barman began pouring without being prompted; he'd been in the trade for twenty-five years, since Victoria's mid-reign, and he knew his business.
"How old are you, boy?" Doggett asked.
"Nineteen ..." And so began Phillip's tale. He told Doggett, his new and only friend in the close, dark threat of the London's streets, all about his hopes and ambitions. About how he hoped to earn enough money to go to America, enjoy all manner of adventures, and eventually return to the Hampshire town and live a life of relative comfort. He'd maybe find a willing girl and raise a family, or perhaps he'd become an entrepreneur and make himself a fortune ... Either way, whatever happened, he'd be fucked if he was going to stay there and not chance his arm in the big, mean world.
"And is there a girl?" Doggett asked. "You got yourself a lady friend?"
The boy's blush betrayed him. He'd barely kissed a girl, let alone got his fingers wet. He looked up into the big man's eyes. He was surprised to see sympathy there; he'd expected some kind of ribald comment.
"I gots an idea," Dogget said in a conspiratorially low tone. "I needs a favour."
Phillip, now on his second pint, bought for him by the generous Doggett, replied: "A favour?"
"Indeed, Mr Traynor, a favour—" Doggett winked theatrically. "—a favour, and," he added, "you stand to benefit a bit yerself."
Phillip blinked in response to Doggett's odd diction, a curious blend of the West Country accent and upper-class vocabulary.
Despite the lad's bemusement, Dogget outlined his plan. It seemed he'd had woman trouble. "Had a few pints, gotten to feeling all randy, and been to see a 'sort' what had been recommended. Costly on the pocket," he leered, "but worth it on the cock. Never had a sexier bitch show me her snatch ... She's got a cunt lined with velvet." Doggett's eyes took on a faraway glaze. "Anyway," he continued, "I left me old granddad's watch behind. Stupid of me, I'll hold me hands up, but she was such a good fuck ... Well, I lost the power of reason. She sucked all me brains out of me head," Doggett paused and added: "The head of me cock that is!" The man threw his leonine head back and guffawed. "The head of me cock ..." he repeated with tears rolling down his cheeks and into the jungle tangle of his facial hair.
Phillip nodded furiously in agreement. He struggled to follow what the big man was saying, but it sounded crude, so he just smiled in his mildly drunken state.
"Let's go over here and talk," Doggett suggested and indicated a tiny, lead-lined stained-glass enclosure.
Phillip followed his new-found mentor to the snug. He settled onto the hard, bench seat opposite Doggett. Their tankards sat on the table like chess pieces between them.
"It's like this. I left me granddad's watch behind." Doggett grimaced to emphasise his point. "I went back for it but she says she don't have it. I says she does, she says she don't. It goes on like this for a few minutes until she starts shouting and bawling and calling for the rozzers.
