The Lost Traveller

by John Barber

The Lost Traveller

  A short story by John Barber

  © June 2015 John Barber

  The Lost Traveller

  If the car hadn’t broken down where it did he might never have stayed on. That was the trouble with classic cars; they had a habit of developing faults in parts of the countryside where there was no specialist for miles around to fix the problem.

  Fortunately he had come to a halt in the main road which ran through a village. The car had given up the ghost outside a pub and more importantly a hundred yards or less away from what looked like a garage.

  Hardly any people were out walking, no other cars passed him by. It seemed like the type of English village found on the cover of a jigsaw puzzle. The houses were all built from local stone and each one had a manicured front garden and window sills awash with tumbling flowers of every colour and kind. There were a few shops but it was not until he reached the end of the main road where more houses became detached from their neighbour that he saw any sign of life at all.

  There was a coffee shop, a guest house and a large shed that appeared to be a working garage but for the doors being resolutely shut and padlocked. There were a few cars with repairs in progress standing like predatory insects on raised hind legs of steel; and two recently repaired older models offered for sale but no price displayed. It did not look like the kind of place able to make a quick running repair to his prized car.

  He turned around and headed for the pub. It had a large paved front garden with wooden tables and scattered chairs and bright coloured unfurled umbrellas with brewery logos in the alternate panels of yellow and red. The Plough looked like his kind of pub.

  He walked into the large bar and was met by the staggered silence that always greets strangers in places where only locals seem to gather. Small groups of lunchtime regulars watched him for a moment then returned to their private conversations. The low murmur of collective interest slowly resumed its normal confusion.

  Then he set eyes on the barmaid for the first time and he knew he should have walked away. But he stayed.

  She looked back at him with those big brown eyes and long auburn hair pushed behind her ears and falling in curls around her shoulders.

  “I’ve broken down I’m afraid. I was looking for a garage but it seems to be closed. I suppose I could do with somewhere to stay and a drink.”

  The barmaid smiled and in a voice that was almost teasing him set out the menu.

  “The garage is closed for lunch; I don’t do bed and breakfast but can offer you a pint of best local beer.”

  “In which case a pint of your finest bitter.”

  He studied her as one who had never seen a woman pull a pint before. Her hair almost masked her face as she leaned over the pumps and served him a pint of clear best bitter with only the merest head of froth, the way he liked to see his beer presented.

  He took the pint and paid with a large note. He didn’t look down again at his beer until the barmaid had rung up the sale and let her hand hover over his just a moment too long to be more than just polite, before his change was gently poured into his palm.

  The reason for the dilatoriness in making the sale was that the barmaid was as interested in the customer as he was in her. He could have been in his mid thirties or even almost forty. He was well dressed with clothes that were tailored for him. His skin was lightly tanned from healthy weather rather than a sun bed.

  They looked at each other, both afraid to let the wrong word spoil the moment.

  “Well, that’s one request covered. I don’t suppose you know where I can stay the night whilst I sort out my car?”

  “Sorry, it’s just living quarters above. There is a guest house across the road. They might have a vacancy.”

  “Popular is it?”

  “Walkers, ramblers, couples, that sort of thing. They run a good restaurant as well.”

  “I shall give them a call. Thank you. Er ..”

  “You can call me Ruth.”

  “Thanks Ruth.”

  “And what do I call you?”

  “My friends call me J.”

  “Short for?”

  “Short for Jonathan. I never liked Jonathan, or Jon, and Jonny is worse. Parents never get their children’s approval before they name them do they?”

  “Maybe because they are helpless babies when they get christened and haven’t got an opinion.”

  “Maybe that is why all babies cry at christenings.”

  “Did you like your parents?”

  “Oh yes, never a dull moment, plenty of love and affection, but no sense of shame where names are concerned. What time does the garage re-open?”

  “Soon I would think. I’ll ask.”

  Ruth turned away from J and looked over at a young woman in jeans and several layers of shirts sitting at a table against the back wall of the bar.

  “Mel, there’s a customer waiting. Is lunch over? That’s Melanie sitting down there looking idle,” she added without ever turning her gaze away from the newcomer at the bar.

  J should have been angry at this deception; but it wasn’t really a case of being seriously misled. He just smiled. “That’s really cheeky,” he added.

  “Be open in a minute or two,” said the none too friendly Melanie who had a mass of long mousey hair piled up on top of her scalp and contained with a set of large clips. She was sitting on one side of a table set for four. Opposite her sat an older man with grease stained blue overalls and a pint of beer in mid flow between table and lip.

  “I can wait,” replied J.

  “Have to,” said Melanie’s mechanic. “Where is this broken down car of yours?”

  “Just outside. Bit of luck really stopping just here.”

  The mechanic rose slowly having dismissed the half empty beer glass from his lips and walked to the large bay window that fronted the bar.

  “That’s yours is it? The light blue convertible?”

  “Yes. Almost fifty years old. Two litre model, twin carburettor sort of thing.”

  “I know,” said the ever more interested worker. “A Mark 2. I’m impressed. You don’t see many of these on the road any more. What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. It sort of went ‘chug-chug’, slowed down a bit then lost power completely and sort of stopped.”

  “Keys.” It was more of a command than a request. The car had enthralled the mechanic who took the keys from the owner and went outside.

  A few drinkers watched in silence as the man in overalls went about his trade. He looked back towards the pub window happily aware of his audience, smiled a wicked smile and then walked back in.

  “It’s your starter motor gone; most probably a crack in the distributor cap and I reckon the plugs and the rest of the electrics will need a good clean as well. Don’t you look after this beauty?”

  “I don’t actually drive it that much these days.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “My dad can fix anything,” said Melanie.

  “But not today,” continued Melanie’s dad. “No one keeps those sort of parts anymore. We’ll have to ring around. Most probably have you back on the road tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine,” said the traveller. “I’m in no real rush. I’ll have to make a few phone calls though.”

  J sat down at the table closed to the wide window through which his car could be seen.

  “It’s not going anywhere,” barked Melanie.

  “Oh, the car. Oh yes, no problems with that. I trust your boss completely.”

  “I’m the boss,” replied Melanie and walked out of the bar with her dad who answered to the name of Dan.

&
nbsp; “She is,” confirmed Ruth. “The boss,” she added as if it wasn’t so obvious what she was confirming.

  J was surprised to hear her voice. He thought she wouldn’t have noticed him watching her.

  “I believe you.” J smiled again in a way that said it was a pleasure just being close to her and talking to her rather than making any comment. He rang a number on his mobile. He looked over at Ruth all the time he was talking; and she back at him.

  “I’ve broken down. The car can be fixed but I can’t make the hotel tonight. Can you ring them and cancel the booking. Where am I staying? At a guest house. Don’t know the name or the number. I’ll ring you later. You can always get me on my mobile. Where am I? I have no idea. It’s a quite charming village called … I have no idea. Ruth, what is this place called?”

  “Greenwood.”

  “Did you hear that? A typical English village called Greenwood. Where am I? The Plough, it’s the local pub. That was the bar person.”

  “The landlady,” corrected Ruth.

  J cancelled the call and smiled warmly again. “A girl for a garage boss and a female landlady. This is not such a typical English village at all.”

  “We like it.”

  “I’m sure you