A/N: The following story is based on a fan-theory which I came up with a long while back: What if the old man whom Winston met in the prole pub was frightened of him and so would not give him any useful information?
I've been working on this story on-and-off for around a year now. I'm happy (and more than a little relieved) to see it completed at last.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own 1984 or any related characters.
Enjoy!
Ernest Conway cautiously stepped into the dusty, nearly empty street, first looking both ways for fear of being recklessly gunned down by the occasional motorcar driven by a thrill-riding Inner Party member. He tottered across the cracked and weed-coated pavement, his tattered overcoat providing him with little protection from the piercing April wind. The work day was finally over; the rest of the afternoon was his to waste. And he knew exactly where best to spend it.
Ernest was about to enter his favourite pub when he decided that he wanted a change of scenery, if just for the day. He understood the risk he was taking in entering a pub that would probably not serve pints: he knew all too well what havoc a litre would wreak on his digestive system. He supposed that trying something new was worth the risk, recalling the time when he left behind the bar's lottery tickets in favour of using the ones given to him by his employer. So far, he had been much more successful than he had ever been with the other ones, winning ten cents more on average.
Ernest ambled along the poorly-maintained sidewalk, scanning the surroundings for a different pub. He turned a corner and spotted a hanging placard, embossed with faded golden letters, the meaning of which he couldn't discern as he had never learned to read. Beneath the placard was a set of swinging doors set next to windows that appeared frosted over. The building from which the placard hung was decrepit, the bricks scarred from not-infrequent rocket bomb explosions. He wondered if he should try the pub out or not; its appearance was mildly off-putting.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a man clad in a pair of blue overalls and moving in his general direction. The man was middle-aged with thinning blond hair, a pale face, a weak frame, and - because of his all-too-familiar garments - an aura of menace. Ernest didn't understand why an Outer Party member would venture into a prole section of town, but such purpose did not concern him: he knew that he needed to stay away from this man. He knew all too well what Party members would do to someone like himself.
Ernest darted through the swinging door as rapidly as his arthritic legs would allow. He walked over to the counter, pushing past the numerous other patrons, some of whom were engaged in a game of darts. He beckoned to the stocky bartender, who snapped to attention and moved to take his order.
"May I help you?" the bartender asked.
"Pint o' wallop," Ernest requested, propping up his feeble frame against the counter.
The bartender gave him a confused look before replying. "Uh, I'm sorry, sir, but we don't serve pints here."
Ernest was rather surprised. He thought that such an ancient-looking pub would be certain to carry pints. "You don't serve pints?" he echoed.
The bartender gave the old man an impatient look. "No, sir, we don't, whatever those are. Litre and half-litre's all we've got here. And if you're looking for a type o' drink, check the chalkboard to your left." He pointed to a black section of wall on which were untidily scrawled words written in a sort of white powder. Having forgotten how to read, Ernest decided to instead study the brightly-coloured labels on the kegs stacked beneath, but soon grew bored.
Ernest turned his head to the right, noticing that the everpresent commotion had abruptly halted. His gaze lingered upon a pair of blue overalls near the front before he turned back to the bartender, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than possible. He hoped that the Outer Party man had merely stopped in for a drink and was not particularly interested in him. But then why would the man stop in this particular pub - clearly not one which any Party member would be caught dead entering - or even be in the prole section at all?
"Now go on, old man. What'll it be?" asked the displeased bartender, folding his arms across his chest. "Tell me or take your business elsewhere."
Ernest chose to pretend to not have noticed the Outer Party member. "You say you don't serve pints?" he repeated.
"Yes. I told you that already, you old fool. And what in God's name is a pint?"
Ernest was shocked. This man had never even heard of a pint? My, how things had changed since he was young. Even the bartenders at one of the newer pubs which he visited every once in a blue moon had at least heard of them, even if they didn't sell them. "Never heard of a pint? Why, a pint's the 'alf of a quart, and there's four quarts to the gallon. We'll 'ave to be telling ya the A-B-Cs next!"
The bartender frowned sullenly and gritted his teeth. Ernest was worried that he might get evicted. He took a step back, just in case the man reached for him. He could already feel the bartender's iron-hard grip on his shoulders, the humiliating sensation of being dragged away, feet half-touching the floor, the sharp pain as his skull struck the rough cobblestones.
But no; the bartender merely turned away and started vigorously wiping out a glass with a washcloth that did not look like it was originally coloured brown. He said, almost bored, "Well, if you're gonna get something, then get something. Just don't go asking again after that old-fashioned drink o' yours."
Ernest wanted to leave, but he didn't. Some troublesome, ornery part of him that had been present for far too long continued to press onwards. He wanted a pint, and darned be the man who tried to stop him from getting one. "I like a pint," he persisted. "You could'a drawed me off a pint easy enough. When I was a young man..."
"When you were a young man, we were all living in the treetops," interrupted the bartender. Half the pub roared in laughter, and Ernest became aware of the fact that he was being watched. He turned his face downwards in shame, seeing nowhere to run and hide.
He felt a slim hand grip his shoulder firmly and heard a reedy voice in his ear. "May I offer you a drink?"
Ernest turned to look at his unknown benefactor. His blood froze when he saw the thin face of the Outer Party member. He wanted nothing more than to run away, to flee this threat to his life, to escape to some hideaway where no telescreens could penetrate and where he could at last be safe from the oppressive regime that had stolen his family, had stolen his old life, had beaten and tortured him into submission, had forced him to labour for years in camp, had spit him out into a vastly different universe from the one he had once gotten to know, a universe not worth living in except to honour the memory of his family.
Rising up to combat the animalistic urges of fight-or-flight came the instinct of feigning normalcy. Ernest knew that the proper thing, the acceptable thing, would be to accept this man's gracious offer and then go about his business as if nothing were wrong.
But something was clearly wrong. Why else would this Party member seek him out?
Obeying his social instinct, Ernest replied, "You're a gent," with a lopsided grin. He then called to the bartender, "Two pints!"
The bartender nodded and pulled two slightly dusty glasses out from under the counter, rinsing them quickly before pouring in a dark brown liquid. Even with Ernest's vanishing senses, he could still make out the reek of the beer momentarily, almost pleasant in its familiarity. Soon enough, he wouldn't worry about a thing. That was why he drank in the first place.
The Party member took both full glasses and handed one to Ernest, who briefly fumbled with it. The younger man then took Ernest by the shoulder and, after a moment's hesitation, led him to a small table by the window near the front of the pub. It was set a distance apart from most of the bar's denizens, which did nothing to ease the hard knot in Ernest's stomach. He needed to free himself from it somehow, but he couldn't exactly bolt. So, Ernest decided to talk. Maybe opening his mouth would loosen the tension in the rest of himself.
"'E coulda drawed me off a pint, easy," Ernest said, settling himself in a creaking wooden chair and resting his glass on the table. "A 'alf litre ain't enough. It don't satisfy. And a 'ole litre sets my bladder running. It's too much, and so's the price."
The Party member nodded, lost in thought, staring into the slowly swirling patterns in his glass of beer. He blinked and looked up, staring at a point on Ernest's forehead. "You must have seen great changes since you were a young man," he softly uttered.
Ernest's eyes widened for half a second. He turned away to hide his discomfort and surprise, studying the room with sudden interest. This dangerous man wanted information, wanted it from him specifically. Why? Was he targeted for extermination?
He gazed around the room again, looking for any other potential threats while he tried to think of an answer that would make him seem harmless. Ernest's vision soon fell on the kegs in the back of the room, and the answer struck him. He turned to face front.
"The beer was better," he began. "And cheaper! When I were a young man, mild beer - we'd call it wallop - was fourpence to the pint. That was before the war, of course."
The solution was clear now, unlike Ernest's glass or the dirty window opposite him. He needed to exaggerate his senility, to ramble, to go on tangents on irrelevant subjects. He needed to call up that ornery part of his nature. Best of all, the alcohol would only help.
"Which war was that?" inquired the other man.
Ernest shrugged. "It's all wars," he replied, gesturing dismissively. His heart continued to pound, so he grasped his drink tightly. Remembering his manners, he said, "'Ere's wishing you the best o' 'ealth!" and took a long gulp. The beer vanished down his throat with practised ease.
The other man nodded and took a sip himself. After a short while, he stood and walked over to the counter, returning with two more glasses. Ernest eagerly accepted the next drink, feeling the warmth rise to his cheeks. He would need as much beer as he could manage to make it through this encounter.
The Party member finished off his first drink and remarked, "You are quite a lot older than I am. You must have been a grown man before I was born."
Ernest furrowed his brow slightly. He had heard quite enough of cracks about his age.
"You remember what it was like in the old days before the Revolution took place. My generation knows next to nothing of those times; all we know is what we read in the history books. What's in the books may not be true, furthermore. I'd like your opinion on that."
Ernest's fears were confirmed. The man wanted to know what he knew so he knew whether or not to kill him. While he may have been an old man, there was life enough in his bones yet. He'd been hiding from death his whole life; why not continue for a year or so longer?
The Party member kept talking, and Ernest patiently waited for him to finish. "For instance, the books say that life before the Revolution was completely different from how it is today. There was terrible injustice, oppression, poverty - worse than anything we could imagine. In London, most people couldn't get enough money to eat or pay rent, and half of them wouldn't even have boots on their feet. They'd work twelve hours a day and sleep ten to a room. And at the same time, there were only a thousand or so people who had all the money in London. They were called capitalists. They'd ride in carriages, had giant mansions and tens of servants to manage them, wore top hats-"
"Top 'ats!" Ernest exclaimed, surprising himself with his boldness. The liquor had done its work quite well. "Funny you should mention 'em. I 'adn't seen one in years. Gone right out o' style, they 'ave." Ernest pounded his fist into the table to accentuate his point. "The last time I wore one was at my sister-in-law's funeral. I 'ired it for the occasion, you must understand. It musta happened, oh, I dare say fifty years ago."
The younger man frowned and said, "The top hats aren't the important bit. The point is, these capitalists, and a few others, owned everything in the land. Everything existed for their benefit. All the other people, the working-class folk, were their slaves. They could do what they liked with you. They could steal all your land. They could sleep with your daughter if they wanted. They could have you flogged with a thing called a cat o' nine tails. The capitalists went around with this gang of lackeys-"
Ernest interrupted again. "Lackeys! Now there's a word I ain't heard in ever so long. Lackeys!It takes me right back, it does! I recollect - oh, donkey's years ago - I'd go to 'Yde Park around Christmastime to hear the blokes make their speeches. All sorts of 'em would go up and talk, there was. One bloke in partic'lar, 'e struck me funny. 'Lackeys of the bourgeoise!' 'e said. 'Flunkies of the ruling class!' Parasites - that was another of 'em. And 'yenas, 'e definitely called them 'yenas. Of course, 'e was referring to the Labour Party, you understand."
The Party member sighed almost imperceptibly. Perhaps he'd grow bored and leave. That became Ernest's new goal. All of a sudden, he understood why his uncle used to grow so long-winded when weaving his yarns and nearly chuckled because of it.
"What I really wanted to know was this," the other man said, a note of exasperation in his voice. "Do you feel that you are treated more humanely now than you were back then? Do you have more freedom than you did back then? In the old days, the rich folk, the people at the top-"
"The 'Ouse of Lords," butted in Ernest.
"Yes, the House of Lords too. What I'm asking is, did these people treat you more as an inferior than people do these days, just because they were rich? For instance, I've read that you'd have to take off your cap and call them 'Sir'. Was that the case?"
Ernest nodded pensively, sipping at his second glass. "Yes, they liked you to touch your cap to 'em. It showed respect, like. I didn't agree with it meself, but there weren't much I could do about it. Had to do it, you'd say."
The younger man brightened up. "And was it the fashion - I'm quoting the history books here - to push you into the street if you didn't pay the proper respect?"
"One of 'em pushed me once. I recollect it as if it were yesterday. It was Boat Race Night - awful rowdy they get on that night - and I bumps into a young bloke on Shaftesbury. 'E looked quite the gent, 'e did - top 'at, coattails, all that - and 'e was kind of zig-zagging across the pavement and I bumped into him, accidental-like. 'E says, 'Why can't you look where you're going?' 'e says. I says back, 'What, d'you think you've bought the bleeding pavement?' 'E gives me a shove, hard in the chest, near sent me into the street and under a bus, like. Well, I were younger then, and I'd 'ave fetched 'im one, only-"
The other man sighed, and Ernest cut short his ramble. He finished his drink while the Party member took a swig, looking as though he needed something stiffer.
"Perhaps I have not made myself clear," he said at last. "You have lived nearly half your life before the Revolution took place. For instance, in 1925, you were already grown up. Now, would you say that life was better for you in 1925 or today? Would you choose to live then or now?"
Ernest adopted an almost philosophical air. "Ah, I see what you're getting at. You're expecting that I say I'd sooner be young again. Most people'd say that, if you arst 'em. You got your 'ealth when you're young. At my time o' life, you're always suffering from one thing or another." Ernest's thoughts drifted to his overfull bladder. "My feet pain me something awful, and my bladder's jest terrible. On the other 'and there's great advantages to being an old man. None of that truck with women, for instance. I ain't 'ad a woman in well on thirty years. 'Aven't wanted to, what's more."
The Party member leaned his chair back against the windowsill, a thousand-yard stare affixed to his face. Ernest stood up and ambled to the men's room, relieving himself from the extra half litre. When he returned, the man had left, glasses and all.
Ernest sighed and eased himself into his chair, leaning back his head and closing his eyes. He had won that encounter, stayed safe yet again.
He didn't know for how much longer he would be able to keep his wits about him, to keep his streak of small victories unbroken.
Ernest pondered the man's questions. They seemed fairly earnest, but then again, Thought Police were trained to feign sincerity.
It was well enough for him to stay in this time. He had grown accustomed to the Party, after all. What was it that his uncle used to say? You couldn't teach an old dog new tricks.
A couple of notes: The name Ernest Conway is drawn from the names of the two actors who voiced Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy in the show SpongeBob Squarepants. (Rest in Peace, Ernest Borgnine.)
Additionally, much of the dialogue is based on that from 1984 but is not quoted verbatim from it. (Of course, different people will remember the same event differently.) If that's at all problematic, let me know.
I hope you liked the story!