by Amy Cross
After a moment, as I continue to lower my hands into the coffin, I realize that I'm holding my breath.
And then my right hand brushes against something soft, some kind of fabric, and I instinctively pull back.
Okay, so there's definitely something in the coffin, but I quickly tell myself that it's definitely not a body. Maybe there are just some sheets inside, although the fabric felt quite fine, almost a little silky. In my mind's eye, I'm already imagining some painting and decorating materials in the coffin, but I figure I can check that out in the morning. Then again, will I really be able to sleep until I know for certain? I stare into the darkness, and then slowly I lower my right hand back into the coffin, determined to prove to myself that nothing's wrong.
My hand goes deeper and deeper, until finally my fingertips touch hard wood at the bottom.
I move my hand around, but now there's no sign of the fabric at all. I put my other hand in as well, and I feel all around the coffin. There's nothing in here at all, no fabric, no nothing, but I know what I felt just thirty or sixty seconds ago. Now I'm really starting to doubt myself, and as I pull my hands back out I realize that I'm just going to have to turn the lights on and look properly. That's probably what I should have done from the start, so I pause for a moment before taking a step back.
Immediately, I bump against someone who's standing right behind me.
Chapter Six
Muriel Hyde
1910...
“You look tired, love. Did you not sleep last night?”
Turning, I see that Harry Tanner is watching me from the far end of the bar, leering at me with that usual foolish expression that he always wears. I hold the man in pitiable contempt, of course, so as I make my way over to deliver his mug of beer I have absolutely no intention of telling him anything about my sleeping habits.
“You should mind your own sleep more,” I tell him as I set the beer down and take his money from the bar. “You look utterly exhausted. Is that, perhaps, why you're not at work on this fine day?”
“Never you mind why I'm not at work,” he says, sounding a little annoyed.
I make my way back to the pot and drop the money inside, but I'm quite certain that Harry is watching me. He often comes into the pub early, shortly after I've unlocked the door, and generally he seems content to bother me. He causes little more than mild irritation, but even this can begin to mount over the course of an hour or two. I am usually quite able to ignore Harry, yet I confess that this morning I feel rather unsettled.
“I heard there was a commotion last night,” he says.
“I'm sure there's a commotion every night,” I reply, pretending to be more interested in totting up some numbers on a roll.
“Down on the beach.”
At this, I hesitate. I don't turn to Harry, even though I desperately want to know what he means. I imagine that he simply wants to upset me, since he had a habit of making foolish little comments about my friendship with Jack Farnham.
“And what kind of commotion took place on the beach?” I ask, taking care to sound as if I am not unduly troubled.
“Some kind of fight, in the middle of the night,” he explains. “We both know what goes on down there, Muriel. There's no honor in the world of smugglers, they're all out for whatever they can get. Now, I'm not criticizing them for anything, every man has to earn his crust and smuggling's been part of Malmeston for as long as I've been alive. But when it kicks off out there at night, things can get awfully violent.” He pauses. “I hear a man was hurt.”
I turn to him. “What man?”
“A man. Got cut up pretty bad, from what I hear.” He stares at me, and I am sure I perceive the slightest of smiles on his lips. “But, of course, it's no great issue for the likes of you, is it? A fine, upstanding, respectable woman such as yourself would have no knowledge of such things. Why, I'm sure you'd never knowingly let a smuggler into this pub, would you?”
I know that he's trying to get a rise out of me, but it still takes all my sense of self-control to hold back from panicking.
“Anyway,” he adds, “one of the smugglers got beaten badly and had to run off. He might even have been killed if he'd stuck around. Wherever he is, I'm sure he's nursing his wounds this morning.”
“I'm sure he is,” I reply, although it's taking every ounce of strength for me to hold my composure. “As you say, such matters are none of my concern. Now, if you will excuse me, I must check something in one of the other rooms.”
I hurry through to the room behind the bar, and then I stop and put my hands over my face. I open my mouth in a silent cry, and I feel tears in my eyes, but I force myself to remain strong. The hurt man on the beach can't have been Jack. He's too wily and powerful for something like that to happen to him. He'll be along presently, I'm sure, with some perfectly reasonable explanation as to why he didn't come to see me last night. Until then, I simply have to make sure that men like Harry Tanner can't get a rise out of me.
Chapter Seven
Charley Lucas
Today...
My eyes flick open and I let out a shocked gasp as I sit bolt upright and find myself back on the floor in my room upstairs. Morning light is streaming through the dirty window, and a moment later I hear a car horn in the square outside, accompanied by the sound of voices somewhere out on the pavement.
I swallow hard.
My heart is racing.
Looking around, I realize that I must have been dreaming. Still, whereas dreams usually fade pretty quickly once I'm awake, this one seems to be lingering at the front of my thoughts. Looking down at my hands, I swear I can feel the sensation of the coffin's cold wood, and the softness of the fabric that briefly seemed to be in the coffin. I can also feel the bump as I stood back, and it was at that point in the dream that I turned and...
I try to remember what happened next, but I guess that must be the point when I woke up.
Running my hands through my hair, I try to get my shit together, but after a moment I realize I can hear Dad's voice outside on the street. I get to my feet and head over to the window, and when I peer down I see him talking to an elderly man who's wearing a tweed jacket.
“We're going to be opening a week on Saturday,” I hear Dad explain. “I'll be putting posters in the window. It won't be a big raucous party, I'm going to try to keep things a little simpler.”
“I'll certainly be along to lend my support,” the other man replies, his voice rich with a plummy tone. “A few of us campaigned very hard to keep this pub from being turned into flats. That's what the brewery wanted, you know. We had to fight them tooth and nail to make them give this place another chance.”
As Dad continues to talk to the man, I wander away from the window. For some reason, that dream still won't shift from my thoughts, and when I reach the landing I still feel as if my head is a little fuzzy. Still, that's nothing a nice long hot shower won't fix, but then – as I shuffle toward the bathroom – I remember that the boiler wasn't working last night. Sure enough, when I touch the radiator next to the door, I find that it's still bone cold.
“Great,” I mutter under my breath. “Cold shower it is, then.”
***
“That's three people now who've stopped to ask about the pub re-opening,” Dad says excitedly as he sets a box of cleaning supplies on the bar. “I think the locals are genuinely excited about having a place to go again. The nearest pub other than the The King's Head is The Golden Bow about five minutes away, but I get the impression that it can get a little rowdy at times. I think people want a real choice. I might pop over to the The Golden Bow later and scope it out. Check out the competition, you know?”
He turns to me as I stand in the doorway.
“Charley?” he continues after a moment. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I reply, forcing a smile. “Peachy.”
I make my way over to him, and it's clear that he's already been busy. He's moved all the stools and chairs out of the main saloon
, and he's even wearing a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves. I've honestly never seen my father looking quite so ready to clean, and quite so raring to go. When I look at the clock on the far wall, I see that it's not even 8am yet.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asks.
“Fine. Thanks. Did you?”
“Like a log. I think the drive took it out of me, but I was awake at five. Sorry, I hope I didn't make too much noise.”
“Not at all,” I reply.
“There's some cereal and milk in the fridge, and some of those bars you like. And some tea, because I know how cranky you get when you can't mainline green tea all day.”
“I'm not that bad!” I protest. “Anyway, I've cut down a lot lately. I'm down to ten cups a day, maximum.”
“I'm surprised you haven't turned green,” he replies.
“So what do you want me to do first?” I asked, trying to find a job so that I can get stuck in. Frankly, that dream has left me still feeling a little befuddled, and I think it'd be good to concentrate on something else.
“Well, the tables need moving out into the beer garden,” he replies, “so I can get on with cleaning the place. They're heavy, though, so only do it if you -”
“I'll be fine,” I reply, already heading around the bar so that I can get started.
“Lift with your knees.”
“I'll be fine,” I say again, and then I stop as I look over at the spot where – in my dream – there was a coffin.
Of course, there's no coffin there now, not in the calm light of day. There's only a pair of tables, a radiator on the wall, and a mirror a little further up. The idea of a coffin seems faintly ridiculous now, although I must admit that I feel a rush of relief now that I'm certain that the dream really was just a dream. I mean, who in their right mind would keep a coffin knocking around in a pub? That's the kind of thing that would only make sense in a dream, and at least now I can let that weird image just drift out of my thoughts for good. I just need to get stuck in to the job of helping Dad get the pub ready for its big opening day.
“Charley?”
Startled, I turn to see Dad watching me from the bar.
“What?” I ask.
“Did you hear a word I just said?”
“About what?”
“About stacking the tables away from the door to the little shed in the garden. I need to get in there to fix the shelves, most of them have fallen down.” He pauses. “You were lost in your own little world for a moment, weren't you? Are you sure you're feeling alright?”
I nod.
“I can manage for the morning,” he adds. “It's fine if you want to go into town and take a look around, get yourself acquainted with things.”
“No, I'm fine,” I tell him. “While I'm moving the tables, you need to think of another job to give me.”
“That's what I like to hear,” he replies as he goes back over to the box of supplies. “Eagerness. With that attitude, we'll easily have this place up and running by next Saturday. And I need you to design a poster for me later, something to put in the window and announce our plans.”
“Sure thing,” I say, heading over to grab the first table.
As I lean down to grip the edges, however, something catches me eye on the next table along. A half-empty bottle of orange cola has been left out, and I feel a flicker of concern as I realize that it's the exact same type of cola I was drinking in my dream last night. Not only that, but it's right next to the spot where I was sitting before I went over to look at the coffin. I stare at the bottle for a moment, before turning to Dad just as he heads through to the cellar room behind the bar.
“Hey,” I say, trying to act like nothing's wrong, “did you try some of those out-of-date drinks?”
“Hang on!” he calls back at me. “I can't hear you!”
I look at the bottle again, and I think back to the moment when I sat on the bench and took a sip in the dream. I know that can't really have happened, although when I run my tongue against my front teeth I find that they're a little furry. I haven't dug my toothbrush out yet, but I figure there's a danger here of over-analyzing things.
“What did you say?” Dad asks as he comes back through.
“Nothing,” I reply, not wanting to make a big deal out of some dumb dream. “I'll get these tables moved and then I'll help you wash the floors.”
Chapter Eight
Muriel Hyde
1910...
Oh good, now they're singing.
As I kneel to place some glasses on a shelf behind the bar, I hear Harry and his friends breaking into song at the far end of the room. I should have known that this moment would come soon, since they've had a few beers each now, and they usually begin carousing at around this point in the afternoon. They're my most regular customers, and I should be more charitable toward their souls, but I cannot help thinking that they are wasting their lives. They are all in their forties, they are all strong and capable of work, yet they choose to sit and drink themselves into oblivion.
The great crime is that I have known plenty of good, hard-working men who were cut down in the prime of life, who would have made far better use of healthy bodies.
Getting to my feet, I glance over and see that Harry, Walter and Leonard seem lost in their songs. They're singing sea shanties, and I suspect that this will keep them entertained for quite some time yet, so I decide to go through to one of the back rooms so that I might at least get away from the din. They all have beer, anyway, so it's not as if they need me to be here. Indeed, as I go into the storeroom behind the kitchen, I feel as if I am getting something of a headache, and when I enter the room I turn to shut the door so that I might get some peace.
“Muriel!”
Startled, I turn to see Jack watching me from the shadows.
“Jack!” I gasp, hurrying over to him, only to stop as I see that he's hurt. “What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” he replies, but this is clearly not the case. His lip is cut and one of his eyes is badly bruised, and he's clutching his side as if he has a wound to his ribs. He winces slightly, clearly in a great deal of discomfort, and then he takes a step before me on slow, shuffling feet.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
“Someone who knows better now.”
“But -”
“It's all fine,” he adds, interrupting me. “One of the new boys thought he could cut me out of the deal last night. Don't worry, I showed him the error of his ways. If you think I look bad, you should see how he looks this morning. I doubt anyone will see him out and about for quite some time, if ever. If he's got any sense, he'll already be slinking off to try his luck in another town.”
“I waited up for you,” I tell him. “Oh, Jack, I was so worried when you didn't come.”
“I wasn't finished until almost sunrise,” he replies, “and then...”
His voice trails off.
“And then what?” I ask.
“The lad I had to teach a lesson,” he says cautiously, “turned out to be named Edward Hayes. I didn't know it at the time, Muriel, but he's a nephew of the Hayes family who own -”
“The brewery?” I reply, horrified by the idea. “You had an argument with someone from the brewery?”
“It'll blow over,” he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Honest, Muriel, it'll all be fine. I just need to keep my head down for a day or two, which is why I came here. Please, Muriel... I need to keep out of sight.”
Chapter Nine
Charley Lucas
Today...
“Hey, did you see this?” I ask Dad a short while later, as I lift up a wooden plaque that had been left propped next to the fireplace. “I think it's a list of all the landlords of this place, going back hundreds of years.”
“Let me see,” he replies, coming over, still wearing his yellow rubber gloves.
I set the plaque on a nearby table and brush some dirt and grime away, revealing the names that are carved into the wood.
“T
homas Wentworth,” I read as I scrape away more muck, “1760 to 1765. Do you think he was the first landlord, or just the first one that's recorded?”
“If he wasn't the first,” Dad replies, “he must have been close to it. I bet things were pretty bawdy back then. Who'd have been on the throne, anyway?”
“One of the Georges?” I suggest. “I always get them mixed up. Except George, the mad one.”
“It's crazy to think the pub's been here that long,” he says.
“You should totally get yourself added at the end,” I tell him, as I look at the bottom of the list. “Michael Cooper took the place over five years ago, but there's no end date listed.”
“He's the guy who ran off, leaving behind a load of debt.”
“Then get his end date put on, and have your name added while you're at it.”
“And hang this thing back up?”
“Why not?”
“I guess I could,” he replies, picking the plaque up and taking a closer look. “It might be good to remind people of the heritage of this place. Maybe they'll value the pub more if they realize they're part of a tradition that goes back almost three hundred years.”
“What happened there?” I ask, pointing at a spot about halfway down the list, where one of the names has been scratched out. “Who ran the pub between 1895 and 1910?”
“I have no idea,” Dad says, “but it looks like someone didn't like them. They must have gone to some real trouble to get rid of the name.”
“Doesn't that seem weird to you?” I continue. “I mean, I get that some landlords are liked more than others, but it seems a little over-the-top to actually try to erase someone from history. And it's mean, too. Not to mention, it kinda draws more attention to them.”
