Men Like Us

Words by Jodie Warrington

Art by Yaleeza Patchett

Albert trudged over cobbles towards the dim yellow light shining through the pub window. He kept his coat on; inside was barely warmer than the street. Head down, careful not to catch anyone’s eye, he accepted his usual from the bartender. Watered down so much it could hardly be called beer, it was enough to bolster his courage to admit to his wife another day with no work. First bitter gulp downed, he ignored the yeasty staleness rising from the carpet and glanced around the smoky room. Busy in here tonight. 

Hunched over their pints were men he recognised from the labor exchange queue. One who used to work at the Audi factory. Another he’d done a bit of farm labor with after getting laid off by the railway. A lad he’d fought beside, bleeding and shitting into the same mud, though they hadn’t spoken since. Some of them murmured to each other. Not enough to rise above the clinking of glasses. Who had the energy?

At the back of the room, a confident voice pulled his attention to where a man stood on a crate, dark hair neatly combed and coat not missing any buttons. 

“Friends,” the speaker said. “It’s good to see you.”

Albert eyed him, eventually recognizing him from the engine works. Not a friend, but familiar. One of them, only not so worn down. 

The man rubbed his palms together and blew into them, catching eyes around the room with a cheeky glint. “Freezing our balls off out there today. And our kids will be sleeping in their coats again because there’s no fuel left. Am I right?”

A groan of agreement spread. Albert lifted his elbows from the bar and folded his arms.

“Nice to be in a proper pub tonight. Not one of those fancy bars where the boys paint their faces and flounce about in silk shirts. You know what I saw in the city yesterday? Youths, no older than my daughter, parading themselves for money. They call that freedom? I call it decay. It’s either that or it’s street fighting. This great country is going to the dogs. God knows what we’re leaving behind for our children. And I’ll bet none of us here feels safe letting their wives walk alone these days.”

Shifting on his stool, Albert turned to face the speaker, raising his pint to his lips. 

“Not that politicians do anything about it,” the man continued, shaking his head and taking a sip of beer. “Too busy playing musical chairs. All talk and no trousers. It’s ordinary, decent men like us who stick around. Who work and fight to protect our families. We’re the ones left to pick up the pieces.”

Albert scoffed. He thought of his son, nearly finished school, with no idea what his future might hold. 

“Most of us here fought for this country, and for what? We’ve been forgotten. Those politicians in their cushy offices, giving away everything we’ve worked for. They tell you it’s your fault. That you just have to wait. Try a bit harder. Bollocks to that! They haven’t had to tell their children there’s no meat again this week. I say, enough!”

Albert nodded, remembering his medals, forgotten in a drawer. His wife at home, taking in mending jobs, sewing late into the night to make ends meet because he couldn’t earn enough. 

“Hear, hear,” old Karl muttered, over by the window, jacket blackened, though no one had worked down the mine in months.

“They don’t know what it’s like to watch your savings vanish overnight. To queue for scraps like beggars. We all know exactly whose fault that is.”

A rumble of understanding moved through the pub. 

A voice shouted from a barstool, “They’re taking everything from us!”

The speaker paused, allowing the words to reverberate. Some of the patrons cheered, lairy after a couple of beers. The room knew who they were.

“Damn right. You speak the truth, friend. They take everything, and expect you to get down on your knees and thank them. You’ve been betrayed.” 

Albert banged his glass down on the bar, more forcefully than he’d intended. 

“It doesn’t have to be like this, you know?” the man on the crate said. “Real men take charge. We need a leader brave enough to say what we’re all thinking.”

Albert thought of the factory gates, locked and rusting like the abandoned motorcycle parts inside. Of his daily, humiliating queue in the cold. He gripped his half-empty glass, hard. No man should have to live like this. 

“We need to take control. No more politicians who promise everything and deliver nothing. Someone who can clear away the crap and get it done.” Several drinkers cheered their gruff assent. Albert leaned in closer.  

“Come next week, same time,” the man urged. “Bring a neighbor who’s had enough. We can stand together and make this country rise again.” 

A bubble rose through Albert’s chest as he stood. For once, it wasn’t indigestion from the cheap beer. 

Then the speaker raised his arm. Rigid, and halted halfway up.

Albert winced at the gesture, his eyebrows pinching and air rushing in through exposed teeth before his head jerked away.

As he sat back down and examined his empty glass, a man brushed past, startling Albert with a firm hand on his forearm. A red and black enamel pin on his lapel matched the one the speaker wore. He seemed to look past the frayed cap and worry lines directly into Albert’s eyes. Really looked. “Good to see you here, my friend.” He held out a leaflet, which Albert took and folded carefully in half, and half again, before tucking into his pocket.

When the meeting ended, Albert pushed open the door onto the soot-dark street and took a deep breath of chill night air before walking home to Ruth. Standing a little taller, his palm rested on the paper, fingers curled around the crease. For once, he could see a way out. 

About the author

Jodie Warrington is a mother and teacher based in Guildford, England. She holds a degree in Modern History from Oxford and writes historical flash fiction as a palate cleanser between working on her novel set in WW2 Britain. Her work centers ordinary, underrepresented people. You can find her on Instagram @jodiewarringtonauthor.  

About the artist

Yaleeza Patchett has been creating illustrations since the moment she was able to pick up a pencil. Through her artistic journey she became well versed in the mediums of graphite, ink and acrylic. Recently she has begun to further exercise her artistic skill in the realm of dark macabre, pagan, and blackwork illustrations. Through this she has found meaning and new love for her artwork. Yaleeza currently resides in the Southside of Indianapolis, Indiana with her husband Jon, her bloodhound Jojo, and her two cats, Boogers and Finn.