Green Fees--Tales of Barndem Country Club

by Brian Alford

  Henry tied to free himself but Agnes was very strong.. “What are you doing? Let go of me.”

  Anges waved an admonishing finger on her free hand. “Now come along be a good boy.”

  With that Agnes dragged the protesting Henry into the toilet. From inside could be heard a cacophony of noises as what was apparently a struggle ensued. Amid much banging and cursing could be heard the authoritative voice of Agnes ordering Henry to sit and behave. Finally the urgency of Henry’s bodily needs overcame his intellectual outrage and a silence fell.

  A few minutes later Henry emerged being led meekly by the arm. Agnes looked a little flushed from the struggle but Henry just looked dumbstruck and embarrassed. Slowly, taking great care to avoid the grinning face of the landlord Henry left the bar and went outside to rejoin the party.

  Humbled by his experience Henry quietly sulked as they passed through the next five pubs. This unusual reserve was gratefully received by the other members of the party who wallowed in the peace they knew would not last.

  By the time the party had reached the sixth pub on their journey Henry’s spirits had begun to rise in line with his alcohol consumption. He was personally acquainted with Joe the amiable landlord of The Grouse and Retriever and was accustomed to enjoying the benefit of a late latch drinking long into the early hours. He would gladly have taken more opportunities to indulge in after hours drinking at the pub but funding was a problem. Drink was far more expensive than he was accustomed to at the subsidised Barndem clubhouse bar and the opportunities for cadging far less. On this occasion however funds were not a problem since drinks were on the house for the party. Tradition dictated that the still largely tenant landlords provided free hospitality.

  Joe had already poured out fifteen whiskeys and lined them along the bar. There was also a large plate of sandwiches and slices of the pub delicacy, venison pie. This delicacy went back to the days when deer roamed Barndem and venison pie was the product of nocturnal poaching activities. Joe’s pies no doubt had more legal fillings than their forerunners but this did not detract from their popularity.

  Henry had stationed himself at the bar and was relating to Joe his unfortunate experience at the White Horse. There was an intense and unpleasant rivalry between the two pubs and Joe was sympathetic. “Don’t talk to me about that miserable bastard. You know what he did? Reported me for serving after hours. Tried to make me lose my licence.”

  “Never.”

  “Yep, had the police knocking on the door at midnight.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing. It was all rather embarrassing really. The local police chief was in here drinking at the time. Two fresh faced young coppers turned heel with red faces.”

  Putting aside his amusement of this incident Henry was disgusted. “He needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “I agree Henry. Have you got anything in mind?”

  Henry pondered as he chewed on his third helping of venison pie. “Possibly. Have you got a bottle of washing up liquid behind there?”

  Joe rummaged under the bar. “Yes, here you go.”

  Henry hastily pushed it back down below the bar. “Careful. Don’t let anyone see.”

  For the next few minutes the customers of the Grouse and Retriever were neglected as Henry and Joe were locked in intimate conversation. Henry’s face remained as impassive as ever but Joe’s changed from disbelief to joy back to disbelief and finally a strange look of pleasant resolve. Whatever Henry had suggested met with full approval. Joe bang his fist on the bar in pleasure.

  “Brilliant! Come on, lets do it.”

  When all was said and done, Henry said more than he did and wanted a little longer to reflect on their plan. “What about the bar?”

  “That’s alright. I’ll get my girl to take over.”

  “Don’t you think we should give it a little more thought?”

  “Dammit Munroe! Stop procrastinating. Let’s go.”

  Grabbing the bottle of washing-up liquid the two men marched out of the pub. Joe and Henry’s destination was the White Horse where they planned to do mischief. For a fleeting moment Wingco looked concerned but sense prevailed and he was secretly relieved to see Henry depart. They could complete their journey in comparative peace.

  Though it is customary to store beer in cellars, there was no cellar at the White Horse. Being an ancient cottage to which various additions had been made its foundations would have been insufficient to handle the necessary excavation. A small outhouse was therefore used to store the beer and the attendant equipment used to deliver the beverage to the bar. In this self contained outhouse a constant temperature could be maintained to protect the precious brew, which was delivered in pristine condition to the bar via underground pipes. To the outsider the unlocked door to the outhouse would have seemed a careless lapse but the landlord had little to fear. Barndem was an isolated community and crime was very rare, if such law breaking activities as drinking after hours were excluded.

  An unlocked door however was an open invitation to anyone with mischief in mind and such was the intention of Joe and Henry. They approached the outhouse from the back of the White Horse. A small gate in the wall at the end of the garden behind the pub led to open fields of the Barndem estate. Access was simply a matter of a small diversion across a pasture in which a herd of mildly curious cows were grazing.

  Creeping quickly across the garden, Joe and Henry entered the unlocked outhouse. Using his knowledge of the intricate plumbing that criss-crossed the line of barrels Joe unscrewed one of the pipes. It was the pipe that led to the speciality beer and pride of the White Horse. As Joe held the upturned pipe end Henry pushed the nozzle of the washing-up bottle into it and squeezed hard. The deed having been done, Joe reattached the pipe to its barrel.

  Giggling uncontrollably Henry and Joe hurried away from the White Horse, Joe back to his pub, Henry to pick up the trail of the Barndem party. They would dearly loved to have lingered and seen the effects of their prank but had to content themselves with the fact that the results of the handiwork would no doubt come to light in due course.

  Had they managed to stay they would not have had long to wait. Not two minutes after the act of sabotage the landlord was pulling on the ornate enamel hand pump which delivered the pub speciality. As he pulled on the pump the beer frothed out of the tap into the glass. Slightly puzzled by the amount of froth he adjusted the tap and pulled once again only more slowly. Normally two full pulls of the pump were sufficient but this time it took five or six as the froth was allowed to overflow into the drip tray below until the glass was full of beer. Quizzically the landlord held the glass up to the light and peered at the slightly murky contents. Then making a mental note to himself that the pipes needed cleaning he handed the pint to the customer.

  The unfortunate recipient of the pint was none other than Agnes. Having left earlier for dinner she had returned for an early evening drink. It was her recipe for health, a pint before and after every meal. It was a recipe that had proved very popular with many of her patients. As was her custom she took a large and lingering mouthful from the new pint to savour the taste. Running the liquid round her mouth her eyes began to open widely and her face contorted as if she were in great pain. Finally she spat the beer onto the floor and banged the glass down on the bar. Glaring menacingly and alarmingly at the landlord she yelled in anger.

  “Holy cow! What the hell’s the matter with the beer?”

  Picking up the pint the landlord sniffed it gingerly. “Well I do agree the pipes are just about due for a clean, but it seems alright to me.”

  “Seems alright? Seems alright? You drink it. Go on drink it!”

  Agnes was not a woman to be argued with and the landlord took a sip. Jutting his head back in shock he too spat the tainted beer onto the floor. Looking suspiciously at the glass his ears were suddenly assailed by a loud yell from the lounge bar. It was another unfortunate customer who had just been served by his wife.

  Wingco
’s hopes of a peaceful conclusion to their journey were dispelled when Henry managed to catch up with the group at the tenth of their calls, the Crooked Pikestaff. Nestling in a clearing of what remained of Barndems once extensive woodland the little thatched cottage belong to another time. The sitting tenant was a widow of unknown but considerable age who had a consistent disposition and temperament, miserable. Her real name was a mystery but she was referred to as Widow Pikestaff. With age and the burdens of her life she could no longer stand straight and so less charitable patrons were known to refer to her as Crooked Widow Pikestaff.

  There was no room for negotiation in the Crooked Pikestaff. Customers were expected to sit and drink what they were given. Smoking was not allowed and conversation actively discouraged since the customer was sitting in the front room of the cottage and therefore in the home of Widow Pikestaff.

  Aside from the novelty of the setting perhaps the biggest attraction of the Crooked Pikestaff was the cheapness of the ale. This was due mainly to the fact that somehow the widow managed to avoid duty on the drink. On occasions when an over-zealous excise officer had tried to enforce the duty, she had simply given the ale away for nothing until the officer had given up in frustration. It was suspected that following one failure the officer concerned had become a regular at the Crooked Pikestaff, a situation which ensured that the widow was left undisturbed by the Excise.

  The ale was a deadly concoction brewed by Widow Pikestaff to a recipe handed down through the generations of her family that had occupied the cottage. It was rumoured that the ale was equally effective at preserving wood as it was raising the spirits of the drinker. Despite attempts by the local brewery to persuade the widow to take their chemical brews she remained firm. There had even been underhand attempts by the brewery to force her to close by having an analysis done on the ale. As expected the results showed that the ale contained copious amounts of live bacteria. There were also a few mystery ingredients that stubbornly defied scientific analysis. Unfortunately for the brewery but fortunately for Widow Pikestaff, while likely to produce interesting results on the bowel none of the bacteria could be described as seriously harmful.

  Noisily the Barndem party shuffled themselves along the long wooden benches that surrounded a large central solid oak table. From a large wooden tray which seemed much too heavy for one so frail, Widow Pikestaff lifted pints of ale and banged them down onto the bare, heavily stained wooden table. Henry viewed the ale with alarm.. He did not normally drink beer and after events of earlier on certainly had no desire to start now. Widow Pikestaff had turned to fetch more drinks when Henry tapped her on the back to attract her attention. Slowly and unsteadily she turned to confront Henry. Interaction with customers did not please her.

  She gave him a fierce look. “Yes?”

  “I’d like a Scotch, if you please.”

  Widow Pikestaff stared hard at Henry with a look of impatience and annoyance bordering on intimidating contempt. Henry looked puzzled but then visibly shrank several inches under the withering look. Today had certainly reaffirmed his prejudices about the opposite sex. As he sipped the murky ale he thought to himself that they really were a most unpleasant lot; best avoided at all costs.

  An unusual silence prevailed over the group, a combination of the strict house rules and the ale. It was a beverage which demanded silence since its taste defied description and the very first sip had a numbing effect on the senses.

  Suddenly the door to the cottage burst open and in marched Agnes. “Give me something to take away the taste of the awful beer in the White Horse.”

  Henry choked and spluttered into his half empty glass catching Agnes’ attention. “Hello old chap. How are you doing?” Agnes pushed her way between Henry and Bill and sat down heavily on the bench next to and half crushing Henry. “This is cosy isn’t it?” In a whisper which was louder than most people’s normal speaking voice Anges spoke confidentially into Henry’s ear. “And if you need any help with, you know, you just say.”

  Horrified, Henry stood up quickly and somewhat incautiously considering his state of inebriation. Staggering clumsily he ran out of the pub. Agnes shook her head in sympathy. “Poor old chap. It such a shame isn’t it?”

  Henry had had enough and retreated to the sanctuary of the golf club to wait in for the others to return. Following the ale at the Crooked Pikestaff the rest of the party wearily completed their trek in an anaesthetised state. Two more pubs came and went until finally they staggered back to their starting point in car park at the golf club.

  So once again Barndem was safe for another year. Even if the necessary Act of Parliament were passed revoking the deed of covenant and making beating the bounds unnecessary it was likely that the ritual would continue. For such traditions are the roots of society such as that at Barndem. Besides, who would want to miss the next round of the battle between Henry, Joe and the landlord of the White Horse? Then there was the strange and disturbing experience of an encounter with Widow Pikestaff; an experience both scary and attractive. And finally would Henry and Agnes meet again with such disturbing but amusing consequences?

  7

  Have You Done

  Ploppy Plops Yet?

  It would not have been strictly accurate to have described Henry as the leading light in the social scene of Barndem. Neither would the term one of the leading lights apply. Though he was constantly the centre of attention it was usually for the wrong reason. Henry was more an ever present follower, more a hanger-on than a leader. Henry went where the drink was most readily available and it was most readily available where magnanimous friends could be found. This unarguable, fundamental, inductive logic meant that Henry was to be found at all social events, that is all events except for one. There was one popular and spectacular Barndem social occasion Henry never attended, Ladies Night.

  This annual event was an occasion when the men treated their other halves to a sumptuous evening of dining, wining and dancing in the banqueting room of a local hotel in gratitude for their tolerance throughout the year. The fact that tolerance from the beleaguered partners was little in evidence was irrelevant; it was the gesture that counted and it was a social highlight.

  For most of the other halves Ladies Night was the only time they met their fellow sufferers and so the occasion was one of great exchange of complaints and misery. The ladies of Barndem liked nothing better than a good moan about the behaviour of their men. Tales of neglect and frustration were met with sympathetic and under­standing ears. For the men the evening often bordered on purgatory, a public chiding for the hours of neglect and in many cases a public airing of fragile relationships. Indeed, many relationships never recovered from the drunken arguments of Ladies Night.

  By tradition Ladies Night was heavily sponsored by the sitting male club captain; the resultant cheapness of the occasion adding considerably to its appeal. The criteria for attending was of course that male members must be accompanied by a female. In more enlightened times it had come to be accepted that the couple did not have to be married but the partner definitely had to be of the opposite gender. Barndem had not quite extended its liberalisation to include partnerships of unorthodox and doubtful character. Though no one would dare to voice this prejudice for fear of rebuke from the chattering liberals, it was an unspoken understanding. It was rumoured that an alternative partners night had been organised but its existence was kept discrete.

  As a confirmed bachelor and notorious woman hater Henry was excluded from the event. This was a sore point with Henry because he was obliged to spend the evening of the dinner drinking on his own in the deserted club house. In was not the solitude that irked him but the fact that he had to buy all his own drinks that night. It was particularly galling to know that everyone else was enjoying subsidised if not free, drinks. Ladies Night was not an event to which Henry looked forward. It was a blight in his social calender, a night of genuine rather than merely perceived misery. A night when life really was having a laugh at him.
r />   Vic, Bill and Bob never missed Ladies Night and though they always enjoyed the occasion immensely, the absence of their constant companion detracted considerably from the evening. Henry was belligerent, always on the scrounge, disagreeable in debate and liable to upset their wives but he was always good entertain­ment. This year Bill was determined by hook or by crook to get Henry to attend. As the evening drew near the inevitable question was raised.

  “Are you coming to Ladies Night this year Henry?”

  Henry ignored the question. He had heard it many times before and his answer had always been the same, unprintable so shall we just say it was a cold and very uncivil rebuff. The prospect of the lonely evening was not welcome. Bill was trying to bait him and he would not rise to it.

  “Come on misery. All you’ve got to do is find a partner.”

  Still the brooding, Henry remained silent.

  Bill was not easily put off. “What about one of those dating agencies? I’m sure they’d be able to fix you up. After all at our age there are more women than men you know. They out number us by quite a long way. And it only has to be for one evening, it needn’t…”

  Henry could keep quiet no longer under the barrage. “Bugger off.”

  Bill tried a different tack. “Oh, so you haven’t lost your voice. You’re scared aren’t you?”

  “Scared of what?”

  “Scared of spending an evening with a woman. You can’t take it. You’re….”

  “Bugger off.”

  Bill turned and winked at Vic. “He’s such an elegant and interesting conversationalist isn’t he? A woman would give anything to spend an evening in such company eh Vic? Imagine it. To every social intercourse she ventured, Henry would reply, bugger off.”

  Vic shook his head despairingly. “I think she would be more likely to give anything to avoid spending an evening in such company. But that’s all irrelevant because Henry’s too chicken to even try.”