We started in the Grapes Hotel and drank our way down
into the centre of the town, losing people as we travelled
which was only to be expected. It wasn’t just the speed
of drinking. Boys met girls. Girls met boys. A lad fell
asleep in the toilet of the Shepherd’s. The Church Inn
on Market Street claimed several, and the Clarendon,
where Harry Rutherford, the artist, used to sketch
seeing our state by now, refused to serve us, which
undermined our purpose and started arguments.
The angriest wanted to fight Security, who anyway
looked ridiculous, in their quilted bomber jackets
and walkie-talkies. A woman I knew took her shoe off
and tried to hit the baldy one with her four-inch heel,
called him illegitimate.
They locked the doors against us.
Years later, married, with children, we’ll likely
laugh about it, but for the present, waking on a Sunday
and lighting cigarettes for both of us, life is painful.
If the enemy launch their attack on Hyde this morning,
we’ll be in no condition to oppose them. My favourite
painting of Rutherford’s shows Sunday afternoon
in Hyde, deserted, save for one forlorn spectator
waiting for the pubs to open. A settler needed
for his stomach, followed by a whiskey chaser.