The Anchor - Fiction.

This is one of a series of bits of writing labelled Carrington. If you want to see what went before, or what it's all about, click on Carrington in the "What I write about" section on the right hand side of the blog. Carrington House, in Deptford, was an enormous hostel for men. It accommodated over 800 men.

Danny blundered out onto the pavement. He pulled down his shirt cuffs out of his jacket. A poor substitute for a pullover, he thought to himself as he tucked his fingers into the cuffs and gripped them with his thumbs. He folded his arms across his chest to try and preserve a little warmth, and headed down the road. Carrington loomed over him like a castle in the sky, a pauper's mansion. It was too cold to think he'd keep warm by holding on to his shirt sleeves, so he rammed his hands into his trouser pockets. His swollen knuckles were stiff and painful from too many years working in the cold. Jiggling his change in his pocket, he tried to count the coins. It was going to be a long old day.

There were a few other men over the road from him gathered in the doorway of the derelict Deptford Odeon. Not so much his people, these ones. A few were mad or soft in the head. Anyway, the boys would be down The Anchor by now. The Anchor wasn't a pub, it was an actual anchor. A monument of sorts to the area's shipping history. But now The Anchor was the place where Danny Brannigan met up with friends, to catch up, to have a drink, and to see the day through.

As he turned the corner he saw Snowy sat on the low brick rim of The Anchor, can in hand.

I see you're one ahead of me.

I'm just after having the one. And you shall be catching me up soon enough.
He cackled into a cough, and held his cigarette out of the way whilst he did so. Danny patted him affectionately on the shoulder and headed into the shop for a few cans and a paper. The Daily Mirror was his regular and he didn't much care what cheap lager got him through the day.

..and half an ounce of Golden Virginia, please sir.

The shopkeeper was a fair enough man. As long as you behaved yourself, he'd see you were ok for what you needed. Danny paid, and carried the bag out to the street, his paper neatly folded inside the bag.

Snowy was waiting for him, and nodded as Danny took a seat. Snowy lived on the floor below him at Carrington. He could be sharp at times, but they'd been through a bit together. He had, as his name might suggest, a full head of wavy, shoulder length, cream white hair. Bits of the original blonde still shone through here and there. His face had a natural frown that cracked pleasingly as Danny sat down.

What's the news then, Snowy? Danny pulled the ring on his first can of the day.

Well I won't be reading that again. Snowy jabbed at The Daily Mirror. I won nothing on the horses yesterday. Nothing. I could have done with a win, I can tell you.

Danny took a sip from his can and folded down his paper.

But you'll have one of these? Unfolding the small packet of tobacco he offered it to Snowy.

I will. Thank you. I have my own papers.

They sat, quietly held in the ritual of rolling. Snowy struck a match, lit his own, and sheltering the match with the other hand, leaned in to light Danny's. The bus went past. Danny tapped his fingers on his knee. Snowy flicked his cigarette habitually, barely waiting for it to generate the ash that would justify doing so.

Good Morning Mrs. Danny said to a young mother, who was quick to pull her child away from him as they passed. As he watched them go on their way he caught sight of Mad Tony coming down the road. His name was a bit of an exaggeration. He was ok. He just got a bit out of hand now and again. He had already got his supplies for the day. A big bag of drink.

You're fair set, big man.

It's a cold day Dan. A man has got to get through it somehow. He smiled his battered old smile and took his place the other side of Snowy.

So, comrades, he announced, shall we spend the day planning the overthrow of capitalism, or shall we make love to a thousand women?

He always had a line, did Tony. Proper funny. Until he got that heavy lidded, nasty, look about him. But that was a way off. It was ten o'clock in the morning.

It was just the three of them for a while, Danny, Snowy, and Tony. To a lot of people they were almost invisible. People walked on, without a hint of recognition, despite the fact that they must have seen these three most days. It would be Danny that would be first with a greeting and a wink.

Good morning Mrs. Hello darling, how are you today?

The lack of reply would leave Danny rolling his eyes, Snowy cursing under his breath, and Tony getting angrier and angrier. Getting past mid-day was the thing. Get past the expectation of food and you're alright. Fill it with beer. Fill that space. Fill that void. It didn't pay to dwell on things. A couple more drinks and the cold didn't get in any more. You'd still shiver a bit, but you wouldn't really feel it. You'd be a bit outside yourself by then.

We built this fucking place! Snowy screamed at a woman who had called them "Dirty Irish Scroungers". Tony started a game of push and shove with her man, a fat bastard who wasn't up for it. Eventually the couple moved on.

Danny sat silent again. A can in one hand and a cigarette in the other, his eyelids heavy and nodding closed, due to the drink. He was here, but not here. The Anchor was a symbol of fixedness, but it was his launchpad. His launchpad into the land of no thinking, no remembering. His jaw was set, his eyes opened but saw little. He turned his eyes down between his shoes, cleared his throat, and spat.