7
The interior of the Victory Club took Danny by surprise. From the outside it looked old and established like most of the other buildings in the street, but once through the automatic double doors he saw that it was all black wood, steel and mirrors. Some trendy designer had been hard at work giving the place a makeover.
To the left was an open door leading into a canteen-style dining room, where a few old boys were having lunch. They didn't look much like old soldiers to Danny, but then he had no idea what old soldiers were meant to look like.
Straight ahead was a mirrored reception desk. But between Danny and the desk stood a massive security guy in a black suit. He was checking the names of three other smartly dressed men against a list he held.
Glancing down at his jeans and leather jacket, Danny wondered if maybe he should have worn a tie. It was too late to worry, and anyway, there was a much bigger problem – his name wasn't on that list. He thought quickly. 'Use your initiative,' that's what they'd told him at the army officers' selection board. He glanced around the entrance hall and spotted an information board detailing the events in the various conference rooms. At the top it read: TRAFALGAR ROOM. ARMY RESETTLEMENT SEMINAR.
As the three visitors were given the OK to go into the club, Danny strode confidently after them. He didn't even look at the security guard and for a couple of seconds it seemed as though he'd got away with it.
Then a surprisingly high-pitched voice said, 'Excuse me, can I help you?'
'I'm here to see my dad,' answered Danny as he turned back, smiling innocently. 'He's on the army resettlement course. Said he'd meet me in the bar at lunch time.'
'And your name is . . . ?'
Danny hadn't thought that far, but there was another room mentioned on the information board. It would have to do. 'Carisbrook. Danny Carisbrook.'
The security guard studied his list. 'No Carisbrook on here. I'm sorry, your dad hasn't signed you in.'
Danny silently told himself what a dickhead he'd been. He shouldn't have made up a name; he could have just said he was looking for his missing grandfather.
But his luck was in. The security guard looked up from his list and winked. 'Tell you what, you go through to the bar and when your dad arrives get him to come and sign you in. You see, the thing is, being a military club we have to be very aware of security.'
'Yeah, I can see that,' answered Danny, trying not to laugh and moving quickly off towards the bar. 'I'll get my dad to come out.'
The bar room was smart. Gleaming. And virtually deserted, almost as though the club members didn't want to use it for fear of spoiling the newness of the furniture and fittings. The carpet even smelled new.
Behind the bar itself, an operation was being carried out with military precision. The barman was polishing glasses, patiently putting a shine on each one and then adding it to a row on the bartop. They made a perfect line, like they were on parade, a credit to the proud barman, who sighed loudly and deliberately as Danny approached. The boy was interrupting important work. 'Can't serve you.'
'Eh?'
'Not unless you're accompanied by a member.'
'But I don't want a drink,' said Danny.
Another glass was added to the row and its position was adjusted slightly. 'That's what we do here. Serve drinks. Wines, beers, spirits, even soft drinks. That's why I'm here.' He picked up another glass.
Danny sighed. 'I'm looking for someone, trying to find him.'
'Member, is he?'
'I don't think so. But he might have been.'
The barman reluctantly stopped polishing and put down the glass, realizing that Danny wasn't going to go away until his questions were answered. 'Name?'
'Watts. Fergus Watts.'
The stare was hard and suspicious. 'And you are?'
'I'm his grandson, Danny. And I need to find him, it's really urgent.'
The hard features softened. 'I'm Harry,' said the barman with a nod and a smile. His face became a mask of concentration as he scrolled through his mental filing cabinet of familiar and half-forgotten names. 'Fergus Watts . . . Fergus Watts.' Eventually he shook his head. 'Doesn't mean anything to me, and I know them all here.'
Danny reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket, took out the photograph and handed it over. 'My granddad's the one in the middle. It's an old photo but he can't have changed that much.'
Harry studied the faded photograph and then turned it over and saw the writing on the back. He laughed. 'Two and six. Half a crown, we called it. Those were the days.'
'But those other numbers,' said Danny quickly, not wanting to be drawn into a long conversation about the good old days, 'the ones after his name – what do they mean?'
'Probably his last four,' answered Harry with a shrug.
'Last four? Last four what?'
Harry smiled indulgently. 'Everyone gets an eight-digit number in the army. There might have been a few Wattses in his unit so they just wrote the last four with the name. Last four avoids confusion, specially in the Welsh regiments with all those Joneses and Davises. No one ever forgets their number.'
He beckoned Danny a little closer and continued, 'Between you and me, I use my last four on my cash card. It's easy to get confused at my age so—'
'But do you know him?' interrupted Danny. Getting a simple answer to a simple question wasn't proving an easy task.
Harry looked at the photo again. 'I'm sorry, son, I don't. And I can tell you for a fact that he's never been in here because I go back longer than anyone. They reckon I'm part of the furniture, and I'm talking about the old furniture, not this new fancy stuff.'
It had all been a complete waste of time and the only lead had led absolutely nowhere. Danny took back the photograph and started to put it into his pocket.
Harry picked up his tea cloth. 'You need to have a word with Big Kev.'
'Who?'
'The tallest bloke in the photo, the one on the right. He's a lot younger there but I'd know Big Kev anywhere.'
Danny stared at the photograph again. He'd never taken the slightest interest in the two young men standing on either side of his grandfather. Not until now.
'That's Kev Newman,' said Harry, picking up a glass and beginning his polishing again. 'He'll be in tomorrow. There's a funeral for an ex-Regiment man and the wake's here afterwards. And Big Kev never misses a piss-up.'