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To all those while a way the winter nights on fullmoonemptysportsbag.com I present to you, a tale penned-so to speak- by me own fair hand The humbling adventure of Charlie Moyne . A text, owing a little more than a nod, to the genius of Graham Greene.
Smiling of course, wry-fully delighting in his own achievements. The old man attempted an awkward skip down the dusty steps. His grey hand outstretched for the banister yet inadvertently knocked his hat off tilt, on reaching the pavement he promptly reset the “trilby crown” with pride then let out a triumphant whistle. He still had the gift, the money was of no consequence, but it helped, it was that much needed youthful shot of exhilaration straight into the arm. His proud march echoed down the high street; the Blakey on his wooden heels bouncing echoes off the tall buildings as though letting the world know that Charlie Moyne was on his way.
Moyne was alive. He thought to celebrate. He looked down at his father’s old pocket watch, always cracked, “5 already” he gasped. There was after all some truth in what he had said. It would be futile to lay a few down at this hour the odds wouldn’t bear any fruit. Moyne was no fool, “calculated risks” was how he had always played it. Besides it was across town and it would be a struggle, his leg was getting uncomfortable for the mechanism had become stiff with the in coming winter air. He crossed the street, and descended into ‘Jim’s Place’, Moyne parked himself at the bar. The balding barkeep approached him, wearing his familiar greying cords and black shirt; he threw a pale mop rag around his neck, like a dog collar. “Charlie” he declared “bit early for you isn’t it?” “You know me Jim, never too early for me”. “The usual I take it?” Jim learned against the bar, Moyne nodded at ease with the familiar banter. “Please Jim, need a stiff drink to warm me up, the old leg it’s been giving me far more jip of late”. “Certainly, here you go”, Jim handed him a scotch; Moyne’s ancient hands greedily clasped the glass. “Thank you Jim, now I’m a little short you see” Moyne dug his hands despairingly into his jacket pockets. He was an excellent liar. “Can I pop it down to you at the end of the week? When my service pension gets paid.” Jim knew it was coming but saw no need for confrontation, merely nodded “of course Charlie pay it back when you can”. Moyne toasted his glass to Jim’s generosity. “What a day it’s been Jim, went down to the post office earlier but it was closed. Can you believe it? Jim shook his head. “As if I don’t have enough to deal with, I don’t know what the problem is, it’s not exactly a difficult job”. Moyne gave an exaggerated sigh. “So Jim” Moyne began “how’s Madge these days?” Jim’s face sunk slightly “Well” he inhaled noisily “she’s still in the hospital, it’s hard to visit, tell the truth as I’m always down ‘ere, can’t close up either Doctor’s bills aren’t cheap. Had a few casuals in the other week nice chaps, but had to let them go this morning couldn’t afford to pay ‘em”. “You’ll get through it Jim, people like you always do” Moyne nodded his head knowingly beaming with false wisdom. “I’m sure we will, can’t complain though others have it much worst off than we do”. After brief banter Moyne found himself alone again as Jim went over to serve drinks.
The girl wasn’t going to be late. Not on her second day. Rose kept walking, even while rummaging into her pink bag, bleached by the early summer. She kept searching and was promptly rewarded. Her pale hand pulled out the tatty envelope then she squinted at the address despite her view being obscured. Must be a scratch, she thought a smear would of wiped clean by now. Having learnt the hard way from previous experience Rose knew this was information she should keep to herself. “9666 Tomb lands Walk” she read aloud, and it instantly came back, she remembered making the journey for the first time yesterday and thinking of what an “unfortunate address” it was. She wasn’t far away anyway, recalling the newly erected stone cross to the Great War on her left. She could see the café up ahead, its fluorescent signage ablaze all hours. There was only one more setback to overcome, pass the ‘Old Tomb land’ without attracting the attention of he father. It wasn’t the fact she was working nights he had the problem with, it was the fact Rose wouldn’t be back to make the dinner, he didn’t care for her mothers cooking at all. It was well worth the risk though, to have a little of her own, she didn’t want to appear cheap to Pinkie. Deep down Rose carried her mother’s pride, and always felt obliged. The pub was now in earshot, loud voices and clattering of glasses could be heard. Rose pulled her grey Macintosh up to her ears, fixed her eyes on the pavement and increased pace. She had made it past the pub without any unwanted attention, and entered her destination, ‘The Royal Brighton Café’.
Moyne peered out of grimy window. The night was rolling in fast; the factory workers and tube men thanks to the new works program were swelling greatly in their numbers flooding in for their constitutional. Shrill laughter would occasionally ring out and faceless flush professionals would wander in. Always linked in arm with a local “good time girl” whom pouted with very certain ease, their spa-ugly stomachs scarred tight with steal and fashion. Moyne lay slumped on the stool as the bar began to fill with weary laughter carried upon clouds of smoke circulating the room. The old toff sat there in perpetual daze above his single malt, like Narcissus at the pool, Jim’s words echoing through his brain, humming childhood ditties and lamenting on by-gone youth, ill-gotten gains. What he was, the self-styled humanitarian peddling dreams and schemes to the “little darlings”, yet always sheltering behind the respectability of yesteryear, now just a veneer. He thought again of her kind face, she saw the lies in his eyes yet indulged his deception, why? Was it pity? Guilt? Or just maybe she saw some goodness in him, Moyne suddenly began to feel terribly ashamed, he was a fraud. People like Jim and the girl were selfless creatures, his own self-centeredness dug deep into him sharp like a bayonet. Searching for reassurance he returned to the only school of thought that could ever legitimise his actions. Moral relativism was a belief Moyne had always lived by. If ever the rare occasion of guilt swept across him, his need and their plenty was the only justification needed to assuage the monkey on his back and promptly sedate it. But Jim was in more need than him; Moyne now acted like his father. Moyne’s juvenile years were rarely graced with his father’s presence, it would be true to say that the raffish chancer wanted as little to do with him as the church. He recalled the poor old priest Malachi to whom a teenage Moyne become the bane of existence with regular instances of theft and other petty acts of disrespect. Moyne often lamented over similar venial acts, yet seldom and perhaps quite ironically did he ever question his own circumstance, for he had in effect since his earliest memories modelled his entire persona upon his foreign father, sown together like a patch work quilt with the odd photograph, rare meetings or local gossip of his “latest shenanigans”. Perhaps Moyne’s early attempt to seek acceptance from his father, maybe even love, or maybe it was “in the blood”. It mattered not to Moyne how his father met his end, a sad end, for Moyne despite the sometimes overwhelming superficial glow saw every death as sad, or at least did. His father, Moyne later learned was a “jumper”, Brighton Pier. Weighed down with all the vice and excess of creation, he often found himself shrouded in self-contemplation, wondering what his father must have felt hanging there on the edge of oblivion. Perhaps it was his age, but philosophical consideration was a train of thought that was tending to stop by more frequent of late.
Moyne suddenly thought of the kind faced girl, perhaps he should as he said, pay her back; he didn’t even finish his drink. The old toff’s new found contemplative nature led him from the dusty smoke-filled false dawn of the public house, down the street to where he saw her, as he clambered the dusty steps he saw a familiar face, the spotty girl, as always lock-jawed with toffee, she was locking up.
“Hello dear” “Oh, Mr Moyne the Partners have gone some time ago, best come back tomorrow”. “No dear it was you I was wanting to see” The spotty girl swallowed her toffee in shock, and gasped “Me”! It was the second time today someone had been wanting her, but no one ever wanted to see her. “Yes” she grinned seconds later delighted with her minor touch of celebrity. “You remember a young women this morning? I believe she went to your floor”. “I think so” she mumbled, “ Oh you mean Ida? She was wanting to see me as well,” the girl grinned. “Yes” Moyne almost sang “Ida is that right? Unusual name.” “That’s right Mr Moyne Ida she was up from Brighton. Why do you ask?” “Just need to return something of hers that’s all. You don’t happen to have an address? “ ‘Fraid not Mr Moyne, she didn’t stay long at all, in a bit of rush didn’t even want tea.” “Well thank you anyway” Moyne left the girl and crossed the street. He checked the time; it was nearly dark but the foggy London evenings were often deceptive. 7-o-clock. “No time like the present,” Moyne declared to his newfound scruples and quickened his pace despite the urge to rest. The bitter air was becoming more aggressive as the night closed in. He had to be at the station to make the train at 8. As he fought on the old toff lost himself in memories of service and the sweltering months spent in the Sudan, for a brief while the cold and the pain were eased with sunshine.
The night shift wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. It was completely still, no customers at all. There was occasional clatter from the ‘Tombland’ down the street or the eerie wind whistling down the road rattling the creaky door. Rose had just finished setting the tables she had been told to and sat back admiring her work. There was little point; so late in the season was the passing trade would be very minimal. The hardest thing was staying awake.
Moyne reached the station, produced his fare and boarded the train with haste and quickly found an empty carriage. On sitting down he finally allowed himself to remember the pain in his leg. Moyne let out a sigh then reached into his pocket and pulled out a dull hip flask, before taking a sip he paused, leaned over and offered two drops to the earth allowing the rich aroma to fill the damp carriage. This was a practice he seldom indulged in, but tonight he thought it wise as after all it was the first time Charlie Moyne had ever allowed himself to be at the mercy of fate. Not to have at least attempted to seek favour with the Gods travelling all this way on a whim may have seen unwise, for the chances of meeting Ida were slim. But on the other hand reason had not been present since their meeting, why should it return now?
At 10:15 the old train rolled into Brighton station lurching to a gentle crawl and an eventual stop. A mixture of intoxication and exhaustion swept across Moyne, he lost himself slightly skipping off the train and floating through the station like a dream, as he made his way to the exit through the ornate stone archway the bitter sea breeze rolled in and awoke him. Stepping onto the pavement, he was alone.
Moyne pulled his jacket close; turning left the weary traveller thought it practical to keep walking, not only to avoid any unwanted altercation but he also knew all to well what might happen if he stopped, this time of year the frozen streets were littered with those who had neglected to “keep walking”.
He turned into a tattered street battered by the coast, where the wind howled like a ghost. Moyne spied light up ahead and was drawn to it. His walk slowed to a crawl then became stationary. He paused bathed in the florescent warmth of modern advertising. ‘Royal Brighton Café’ shone down upon him. There was a chalkboard awkwardly placed in the window, neatly inscribed with ‘now open all-night Monday to Saturday’. He gave a delighted smile, the perfect place to make camp. The old door creaked as he opened it, no doubt aged prematurely from the sea air. He took a seat with all he had left and ordered a cup. He scanned his surroundings, it was an old café there was little doubt of that. There was a musty smell in the air, faded Victorian grandeur now demoted to the night shift. The waitress and he were the only ones there. She was young and petite; as she brought Moyne his tea a polite smile greeted him.
“You’re not here all by yourself I hope.” Moyne enquired. “Well not usually I’m not sir”, came the gentle response. “I’m not usually here at night in fact, I’m covering for Ethel she’s off sick. I don’t mind though.” “That’s good of you dear. Doesn’t it bother you? Dainty creature as yourself, who knows what type of folk might wander in.” “Not really sir, you’re the first customer I’ve had and I suspect the last”. She looked across hopelessly at the masses of surplus tables she had set, lying vacant. “Please call me Moyne, Charlie Moyne” “I’m Rose, Mr Moyne”. She spoke softly. “How old are you Rose? You can’t be more than 15.” “17 actually, I look younger than I am”. “You worked here long Rose?” “No Mr Moyne, only a week I usually work at ‘Snows’ on the sea front, you know it? Moyne shook his head. “This is only for some spending money, my mother needs all the money I earn at ‘Snows’ to pay the rent. “I see, are you parents proud of you? Rose grinned. “They must. It is impossible not to. “You can take a seat if you like”. He offered a chair. “Keep me company?” “Well.” She hesitated slightly, “I’d be delighted Mr Moyne” her response of course compelled by manners.
And with those words Moyne was completely at ease, to such an extent in fact that he spent the majority of his stay unburdening himself upon her. The reason he had wandered in alone at such an hour. Why he was down from London so late in the season. Then finally why he had to find Ida. Though embellishing the truth a tad, someone like Moyne couldn’t be “born again” completely in the shortness of an evening. After a while the old toff carefully enquired. “You know of an Ida dearly?” She regretfully replied. “Don’t know of any Ida ‘fraid,” the issue was then promptly forgot, not spoken of until they departed. Moyne did the majority of the talking. She rarely spoke. If Moyne ever began to feel mindful over the extent with which he was dominating the conversation he would casually say. “Now that’s enough of me, what about you dear?” And she would always say. “Oh don’t be daft, it’s quite interesting, pleasant change having someone to talk to Mr Moyne”. When this happened for the third time Moyne thought it prudent not attempt a fourth.
After taking tea one last time and a little breakfast Moyne stood up, and carefully tucked in his chair. Rose wished him “good luck in finding his sweetheart”. Moyne thanked her, waved goodbye, then put his best foot forward and marched into town. By the time he reached the high street Brighton was beginning to awake. Hordes of men in hats were flooding towards him to caught in the morning tide to change direction. He felt his age show, his body was too weary to keep up. Looking to his left the calm beach seemed inviting, he wondered over. Gazing out across the waves and the endless expanse of ocean all seemed well. It had been years since Moyne had been on the night shift but he was the most awake he had been since leaving Jim’s.
“Is it you, Mr Moyne?” As if from heaven. Moyne turned; he saw a familiar face relaxing in a deck chair. Pulling a wry smile, the sight did appeal to his sense of the ridiculous. Moyne took a seat opposite, and reached into his pocket.
About me
I am a male
Age: 19
I live in Leicester - United Kingdom Last online: 25/04/2008
Status: Single
My favorite books are: The
Grapes
of
Wrath
Our
Lady
Of
The
Flowers
Nineteen
Eighty-Four
Brave
New
World
Billy
Liar
Brighton
Rock
The
Heart
of
the
Matter
The
Picture
of
Dorian
Grey
Clockwork
Orange
The
Color
Purple
To
Kill
a
Mockingbird
No
Direction
Home
The
Quite
American
The
Name
of
the
Rose
Birdsong
The
Polar
Express
Harry
Pottey
erm
Six
Dinner
Sid
My favorite films and tv shows: Donnie
Darko
Brighton
Rock
Last
Tango
in
Paris
Quadraphenia
Clockwork
Orange
Charlie
and
the
Chocolate
Factory
-original
of
course-
High
Fedelity
300
Lock
Stock
V
for
Vendetta
Pan's
Labyrinth
Raging
Bull
American
History
X
I really like these kind of bands:
In
no
particular
order
The
Good
the
Bad
and
the
Queen
The
Libs
DPT
Beachboys
T
rex
Chuck
Berry
Muddy
Waters
Patys
Kline
Neil
Young
Pete
Doh
Babyshambles
Beatles
Rolling
Stones
Sex
Pistols
The
Smiths
Bob
Dylan
Led
Zep
Radiohead
Jam
The
Clash
Skip
James
Billie
Holiday
Belle
and
Sebastian
Only
Ones
Ramones
STICKS
Regina
Spektor
Streets
Damned
Television
The
Coral
White
Stripes
Stone
Roses
Johnny
Cash
Velvets
What I'm looking for:
to meet other writers, to network, to make new friends, to show my work, to engage in intellectual debate, to...not sure why, |
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