The Fog - James Herbert [38]
‘Yes, Harry. Have another one y’self.’
Harry knew the offer would come, which was why he was always eager to serve Herbert.
‘Ta. I’ll have a small light,’ he said, smiling through cigarette-stained teeth. He was a runt of a man, insignificant to most of his customers, but always treated well by Herbert Brown.
‘Nah, have a short.’
‘All right, Herby. I’ll have a gin and tonic.’ He poured the drinks and took the pound note from the bar where Herbert had nonchalantly laid it. He rang up the till and swiftly scraped out the change, a ten pence piece finding its way into his own pocket.
‘Here you are, Herby. Cheers.’ He raised his glass and sipped his gin. He was a good sort, Herby. Always ready to buy a drink. Never checked his change. He spent at least three evenings a week in the pub opposite his shop in Hackney Road, and most lunchtimes. Herbert usually rose early, about 5.00 or 6.00, and went to the market to buy stock for his fruit shop. By 11.00, he considered his day was done and a trip to the betting shop was always followed by a visit to the pub, leaving his hard-working wife to cope with the selling of the fruit. She had long ago resigned herself to the fact that Herbert would never change, but this did not stop her acid-tongued beratement of him. And the more he was nagged, the more he drank. And the more he drank, the more he was nagged. The circle was never-ending, but neither of them could see it. It was a way of life.
‘I shouldn’t worry about them, Herb. They’ll turn up.’ Harry leaned forward on the bar, a false look of sympathy on his face. He couldn’t understand how anyone could worry about bloody pigeons, let alone breed them. He’d once been up to Herby’s coop, a dangerously perched hut built on a side roof at the back of his shop. The house itself was large, as were most of the houses along London’s Hackney Road; their backyards dropped a floor below road level, providing extra habitable basement rooms and giving the houses concealed depth. An extension had been built by the shop’s previous occupiers, extending most of the length of the backyard and reaching the second floor level. The roof, which was flat, could be reached from a landing window, and on it Herbert had built his pigeon coop.
The smell inside the hut made Harry feel nauseous, and Herbert’s drunken clucking had filled him with barely concealed disgust. For the life of him he could not understand what Herby saw in the fat, cooing creatures. Puffing themselves up, messing all over the place. They weren’t good for anything – even pigeon pie was out of style nowadays. Herby raced them, Harry knew that. But he’d never won anything from it. When he’d cautiously broached the subject to him, the only reply he’d got was, ‘Have you ever watched them fly?’ Just the silly sort of answer you’d expect from an old drunk. Still, apart from his stinking pigeons, Herby was all right. Always good for a drink, always good for a tap.
‘They should’ve been back before now,’ Herbert was saying mournfully. ‘Only took them down to Salisbury in the van. Got some new ones, y’see, you’ve got to go easy on ’em at first. Mustn’t take ’em too far or they’d never find their way home. Some of the older ones were with ’em so they should’ve been all right. And Claude never gets lost!’
Harry had to hide a grin as he thought of the ridiculously-named pigeon which was Herbert’s favourite. He’d had it for many years, a scruffy old bird that always looked as though it had just escaped from the clutches of a cat. He treated it like a baby. The time Harry had been up there, Herby had held it to his cheek and spoken to it as though it could understand every word. Not baby-talk though, but sensibly, man-to-man. When Harry had held it, it had shat in his hand.
‘Took ’em on Sunday,’ Herbert continued, his words slurring slightly. ‘Should be back by now. Trouble is, y’see, they need the sun to guide them.’
‘Well, maybe they got back earlier this evening Herb, just after you got here. You wait, when you get home, they’ll all be sitting up waiting for you.’ He caught