“I remember,” said the stranger, “when money was real money.”
“That’s right, mate,” said his new friend. “Pounds, shillings and pence.”
“And testoons,” said the stranger, “and groats and placks and angels and ryals and ducats and louis d’or and louis d’argent…”
“You what?”
“And nobles of course,” continued the stranger. “I remember when you could get pissed as a rat, have a really good blow-out in a bakehouse, see the bear-baiting, and still have change out of a noble.”
The landlord turned his head very slightly. Drunks were no problem, but loonies he could do without.
“What are you talking about?” asked the stranger’s new friend, in a tone of voice that suggested that their friendship might soon end as rapidly as it had begun.
“Before your time,” explained the stranger, twirling his beer round in its glass to revive the flagging head. “Can’t expect you to remember nobles.”
“Are you taking the…”
“No,” said the stranger. “Are you?”
Twenty years of keeping a pub in this particular district of Southampton had given the landlord a virtually supernatural instinct for the outbreak of a fight. Unfortunately he was at the other end of the bar, and before he could intervene the stranger’s new friend had hit the stranger in the face, very hard.
“Christ almighty,” said the stranger’s new friend. There was blood streaming from his lacerated knuckles, and the stranger was grinning.
“Go on,” he said, “hit me again.”
Before this invitation could be accepted, strong and practiced hands had taken up both parties and put them out in the street. For his part the stranger landed awkwardly, staggered, lost his footing and fell extremely heavily against a parking meter. The parking meter broke, but not so the stranger. He simply gathered himself carefully to his feet, looked around, and set off in search of another pub he remembered in this part of town. When he got there, however, it was boarded up. It had been closed for the last seven years, ever since a party of Royal Marines had started a fight with a man they thought was trying to be funny, and which had ended with five very confused Marines receiving treatment for fractured hands and feet.
♦
At this stage, of course, the Dow Jones was still buoyant, the HangTseng had never had it so good, the FT was climbing like a deranged convolvulus, futures were trading as if there was no tomorrow, and the only currency that wasn’t performing too well was the Confederate dollar.
♦
In an alleyway in the centre of Cadiz, a rather disreputable-looking cat was stalking an empty crisp packet.
Just as the cat had resolved to pounce, a puff of wind caught the crisp packet and blew it into the middle of the highway, along which an articulated lorry full of cans of tomatoes was travelling. The cat saw this, but decided to pursue its quarry nevertheless. He had been stalking it for over half an hour and he was damned if he was going to let it slip through his paws now.
The lorry driver, to his credit, did his best to brake, but the momentum of a heavily laden Mercedes lorry is not an easy thing to dissipate quickly. There was a thud, and the cat was sent flying across the road. The lorry-driver continued on his way, and soon put the incident out of his mind.
The cat wearily got to its feet and looked around for the crisp packet, but it was nowhere to be seen. At that moment an English tourist came running across to inspect the damage. The tourist was female and fond of cats.
When she saw the cat get up, she couldn’t believe her eyes. She had seen the poor animal being run over by the lorry—it must have been killed. But it hadn’t been. She came closer, and it was then that the smell hit her. She reeled back, with both hands over her face, and groped her way out of the alley.
The cat was used to such reactions, but that didn’t make them any more pleasant. He sulked for at least ten minutes, until a discarded fruit juice carton caught his eye and he settled his mind to the serious business of hunting. In a very, very long life he had learned how to get his priorities right.
♦
On her way back home to Maida Vale on the tube, the girl who had seen the Flying Dutchman was bored, for she had forgotten to bring a book with her to read on the journey. Not that she had ever doubted for one split second that she was coming home tonight—perish the thought! It had been simple forgetfulness, and the tedium of having nothing to entertain herself with but the posters and her opera programme was a fitting punishment.
