Scouse and Out in London – The Cittie of Yorke

‘The Cittie of Yorke’ by Noelle Northstar

This was a silence which clung to the wooden panels of the dimly little hall. Heavy and oppressive, breathing on down under your shirt collar like the heat of a woman’s perfume. Huge vats and casks lined the walls and the ceiling rose high like the arch of an alleyway. Behind the bar the pale skin of the barmaids glowed like freshly plucked seashells. 

Theirs was the light in the darkened gloom of the Cittie of Yorke, where of an evening long haired men hunched on stools with great hefty hands clasping glasses of fizzing amber liquid. Hardened fingers rustled through the tussling hair straightening the curls, easing the whirling and swirling. 

Behind the bar the pale skin of the barmaids glowed like freshly plucked seashells

The shakes had set in pretty hard but when the first chill of liquid settled over my tongue and ran down into my veins I gasped and knew the balance had been restored. I was joined by my friend Craig Mawlin and we sat in an enclave of the pub on High Holborn street empty glasses mounting. 

We sipped from our pints of Taddy Lager which cost just £3.90, smiling quietly as a weathered tramp limbed towards the bar. He fumbled delicately with coins, carefully bringing out each one and eying it suspiciously. He had this wild hair, which was greying, and he wore a tattered green overcoat with patches of brown fabric stitched in. He sat down at the bar and began to nurse his drink. 

I turned to Craig, his cast iron jaw jutting out firmly, and observed his swept back hair and deep-set eyes. He was a surly looking man with a hint of menace in his movements. His skin caught the sun easily and he looked good. His collar was open and his tie at an angle. There was the hint of rebellion in his attire but also respectability. A shirt and tie done with flare. 

Across the floor passed a black man and his girlfriend. He held her hand in his left, as his right was without digits. He had reddened eyes and smiled shyly. We watched him settle at a raised table resting his stumped limb on the oaken surface. There the pair spoke and the dependence and intensity of his love for her shone out raw like unfiltered sunlight. It was dazzling to behold, and I became embarrassed and so looked away.

I turned to Craig, his cast iron jaw jutting out firmly, and observed his swept back hair and deep-set eyes

From the streets a ruckus rumbled into the hostelry and the tramp at the bar raised a white eyebrow. He turned and saw suited men swing through the doors. Their soft palms slammed down on the counter. Curling his shoulders further inwards, the tramp eyed his drink and then flicked a glance at the intruders. They announced their order and the barmaids began the lengthy task of satisfying it. 

Rising slightly from his chair, the black man twitched his shirt cuff further down his arm and then patted his closely cropped hair. With a hand tracing her silver necklace his lover gripped the deformed hand and nodded. And though it was dark, I saw his skin redden and his gaze faltering. Craig watched the crowd at the bar closely his fist clenched with knuckles protruding angrily. The dusky setting grew hotter now and we drank faster. 

We slouched over to the bar and slurred out another round. Rather than returning to our pews, we remained leaning at the bar, occasionally turning 180 degrees to inspect the surroundings. Our eyes were baggy, and pupils hazed. He was taller than me, for though I am taller than most women, I am not tall for a man. The gaggle behind us moved onto shots and their voices grew louder. Their orders grew in expense and the tramp beside us touched cautiously again those coins in his pocket, while the black man and his lover kissed.

Soon the gaggle stilled, and the bar quietened to a deep hush. No words just long stares into the glasses. Periodically someone would shift their weight or gently cough as though it were a library. Then the final orders bell sounded, and all eyes raised nervously to the beer taps. The cautious tramp gained confidence and got another drink with his last coins. Craig and I gulped down another. 

In the desperation of the end of a night, the cripple, the rich and the poor, all had one purpose. Often it is only at the end, when it is too late and too much has gone unsaid, that we realise our desires were much the same all along.

Disposable Cam is a Scouse journalist. He is in the pub.