The brewery representative had given up on Charlie in this and most other areas now, instead concentrating on the merits of various manufacturers’ pickled eggs or scampi fries. It wasn't that Charles Horse didn't want to be successful. It was simply that he didn't want the 20th Century. "Nothing wrong with pubs that have food", he would often comment over the bar to any of his locals who would care to listen. "But not in my pub. Not while I'm the landlord."
By appearances most people would assess Charlie as surly. (This opinion would usually be arrived at after a conversation that would commence with an uninformed customer approaching the bar, speaking to Charlie and vocalising something along the lines of, "Good evening, Proprietor. May I order a White Chablis, a Taboo Spritzer beer with ice and a packet of Bombay Spice to nibble on. Oh, and whilst you're at it, can I have a look at the menu?" Charlie would smile his wide smile and positively boom,
"We don't do that, I'm afraid."
"Which one?" would smile the customer, thinking to share some mischievous repartee with the landlord.
"All of it." Would pronounce Charlie, and the smile would become just a little wider.
This however, was not the case. He very much believed in the art of giving the punters what they wanted. As long, of course, as what they wanted fell in line with what he was prepared to deliver. This would usually involve some sort of shenanigans to get the potential diner to part with some money for a drink before he told them that the nearest culinary delight they could look forward to was a packet of scampi fries coupled with a small grimy packet that included four Ritz crackers, a Dairy lea cheese slice and a shrivelled pickle onion.
That Charlie had very little trouble in imparting this information had a great deal to do with his rather imposing physical presence. Charlie would often boast that he very rarely had any trouble of any kind in his pub. The fact that the landlord was six foot three and built like one of the steel barrels that contained his relatively mundane real ales could have had a great deal to do with it. The cellar man’s apron that none of his customers had ever seen him without, also helped reinforce this opinion. To say that Charlie cut a somewhat imposing presence was like saying that mount Everest was a big mountain.
The Bucket and Shovel was stuck in a veritable Charlie - induced time warp. This revolved around a rather quaint idea of what the local pub should be, and more directly, what it should not be. And the regulars loved him for it. The great thing about a visit to the Bucket and Shovel was that you always knew what to expect. No sudden surprises or arrivals of "beer of the month" to throw you out of your drinking stride. The pub that Charlie ran had very little to offer that could be filed in the cabinet marked, "rare and interesting life enriching experiences", but you did know that you could get a very reasonable price of bitter, and the date of the next race night could be marked very clearly in your social calendar.
Which meant for a brisk trade. Whilst the more consumer orientated pubs struggled to fill more than a few tables of diners on a Tuesday, Wednesday or even Thursday nights, trade for the Bucket and Shovel stayed at a brisk level for most nights of the week. This had a twofold effect on Charlie's running of the pub. One, it made the weekly order for levels of bitter, lager and other consumables less of a gamble and more of a certainty. The second effect was that it gave Charlie a great deal of leeway with the powers that be at the brewery. In an age in which most hostelries were being converted to “Happy Diners" and the like, Charlie was left very much to his own devices, because basically, his philosophy on the day to day running of the pub made them money. Which suited Charlie - and the brewery - just fine.
Charlie remembered several years ago when a new area manager was promoted straight from university, and his subsequent visit to the Bucket and Shovel. An inkling of a smile crept to the corners of Charlie's face at the memory of it. The poor man had arrived with suggestions of designer beers, cocktail happy hours and talk of video jukeboxes. He had left rather hurriedly barely twenty minutes later with a serious loss of self-esteem and a very large and ticklish flea in his ear. He had stuck the job out for another three months or so before leaving to bring the concept of designer ginger nut biscuits to the masses, and was by all counts doing very well for himself off it too, thank you very much.
The fact that the brewery was happy made Charlie very happy indeed. There could be very little wrong with the opinion of the brewery that all in all Charlie was doing a fine job, and was best left to it. Which had the double effect of making Charlie a relatively happy chap as well. So all was well in the Bucket and Shovel. The brewery was happy. The customers were happy. Charlie was happy. Or at least he thought that he was.
But that was before he found the cigarette lighter.
Squire Bidecombe’s Tree
I.
~ In the village of Tharnet, just before dawn a man sets out on a task, there is a memory of an acorn falling and rain is thought to be on the way. ~
In the year of Our Lord One Thousand Six Hundred and fourty six in the village of Tharnet, just before dawn, Henry Bracebridge was a man in a hurry. It was a cold foggy morning and as he made his way down the lane, the covered lantern he held out before him was his only protection against the dark. A sharp wind made his progress slow, his cloak blowing around him. Across the meadows the dull sound of the shepherds bells rang dully as if muffled by the pre-morning mist.
In his head Henry was considering the tasks set before him by the squire. All in all it should be a relatively simple chore and accordingly he had engaged a number of villagers that he thought he would require to aid him in accomplishing said business. He snorted aloud as he wondered whether Abraham Sprottle would arrive at the church yard before him. “Almost certainly he is still a-bed and here’s I out in the dark with the shepherds coming in from the hills.” he thought to himself as he picked his way over the rough stone strewn path, carefully making his way in the dark. He believed that he may have smelt rain in the air but he continued nonetheless on his way in the darkness. He knew that dawn would break soon, which should coincide with his arrival at his destination.
It was a week ago that Bartholomew Bidecombe, in his capacity of squire to the village had summoned Henry to the churchyard (of which the squire was the custodian), to discuss a matter that he had considered to be most pressing. It had been a bright but breezy Autumn morning when Henry had met the squire at this location. The squire’s horse and cart stood underneath the huge Oak Tree that straddled the church side of the path. Curiously, the squire seemed to be wandering amongst the graves spread about the church, muttering to himself and occasionally stooping to pick something up, and then almost immediately throwing whatever he had found away once more. The squire’s man servant, Oswyn Pelletoot, seemed also to be engaged in a similar task, but did not seem to be throwing away whatever it was that he was picking up, stowing whatever he was collecting in a fold of his smock that he held before him like a small sack. As Henry watched however, Oswyn stumbled and dropped all of whatever he was holding all around him. He loudly uttered a curse and the squire stopped immediately what he was doing, staring at Oswyn.
“Sorry, Squire” he muttered, which earned him a scowl from his master. Oswyn immediately began collecting his dropped treasure once more, and as Henry got nearer he could now see that the pair of them seemed to be collecting acorns. Henry remembered pausing on the path before he crossed over to the squire, and wondering what by the devil’s name they were doing. His observations had been interrupted however, as the squire suddenly noticed that Henry had arrived. Standing up and straightening his hat he rubbed his hands together as if to shake the dust from them and came to meet Henry.
“Squire.” nodded Henry and Bidecombe nodded to him in return.
“Damned acorns, Henry” he sighed, eying Oswyn out of the corner of his in case of any remonstration, and Henry could see that although he was no longer collecting acorns he still remained somewhat in a state of agitation. “Something needs to be done. They are all over the
church yard. Graves and all, even though they are on the other side of the church! It is just not right!”
Henry noticed Oswyn out of the corner of his eye who was still busy collecting acorns into the fold in his smock. “I am sure Oswyn is suffice to the task, squire” Henry remembered replying, and the squire looked confused at this.
“I consider Oswyn to be most definitely insufficient at all things not related to ale or whoring” he had remarked, leaning closer to Henry as if imparting some form of secret knowledge. “Yet you are correct. Gathering acorns is not beyond him.” He stared across to Oswyn, who was by now positively brimming with acorns and had the look of a man who was not sure where to deposit them. Squire Bidecombe sighed loudly. “And yet...” Henry smiled too.
“But Henry, I did not bring you here to watch Oswyn Pelletoot over there performing his usual buffoonery. We must address the issue at its source.” His face brightened as he considered his words. “At its root, perhaps” and to Henry’s surprise the squire winked at him. Henry had attempted to look not too lost by the conversation but it must have been to some degree apparent to the squire that Henry was floundering. The squire cleared his throat loudly.
“The tree, Henry” he pointed, “That is the root of our inconvenience. Once a year the whole church yard is assailed by acorns. Everywhere they are. The tree must go.”
Henry looked up through the branches of the huge oak tree. The tree had stood on the edge of the churchyard since he was a boy, and it had been even more mountainous to him then than it was now.
“They are only acorns, squire” Henry had replied, and the squire had suddenly looked on the edge of agitation again.
Only acorns, you say?” he enquired, rubbing his hands together more vigorously again. “Yet I feel that is an affront to the gentleman of the cloth and God himself, to which I am now party. It is my church, is it not?”
Henry had nodded in agreement.
“Therefore it is my tree too.” he waved dismissively at the oak and frowned at it. “And it must go, Henry. It must surely come down.”
“There were no acorns at all last year” Henry had offered, but the squire had frowned once more, a slight colour now rising to his cheeks.
“Are we to rely upon such providence?” he had spat, and Henry was fully aware that this was not in any way a question. “I am away to my brothers across the county at the start of next week and I shall be away for two nights. “I want that tree felled by my return. See to it Henry.”
Henry made to query the squires plan but he was already making his way back to the cart. Over his shoulder he called, “Make sure it is done true, Henry! Brook no errors in this. I am sure to rely upon you.”
Henry had stood open mouthed as the squire had knocked all of the acorns out of Oswyn’s smock as he went past him, tutting as he went. “Come along, fool!” he had snarled as he made his way back to the cart. Oswyn had scampered up on to the cart after him and soon the pair were gone down the path, leaving Henry gazing up at the Oak.
Henry had stood looking up through the branches of the Oak tree into the blue of the bright autumn sky. A light wind caught the branches and as he watched acorns began to fall around him. He had shook his head sadly at the thought of it, but the squire’s mind seemed to be made up. The tree must go. Slowly he had walked around the base of the tree. He had estimated that the tree must be some twenty feet or so wide, and perhaps some seventy feet high, with a spread of about fifty feet. “Axes as well as saws” he had thought to himself, and so he had begun to formulate a way to fell the oak.
Over the course of the next few days he had gathered a crew of sorts, villagers who had the right tools, and enough them not just to fell the tree (though that would be a task in itself) but also to move it once it had been felled. Barnaby Gerville, Tobias Quintin, Cuthbert Pursglove and Solomon Ruggenall he had consulted and all had agreed to give their assistance. Of course in truth they all had little option. Henry was uniformly recognised as being the head of the village tradesmen, and as village blacksmith was a very important man by his own right, which of course was why the squire had called upon him. However, once Henry conveyed that the request came from the squire himself then there was little to do but undertake Henry’s plan, and to fell the tree.
Henry had worked late for several nights after that, sharpening axes and saws and so on, but now on this early morning at last they were ready. As promised the squire had departed late the previous evening, but not before calling on Henry who was at work in his smithy, to re-iterate his plan.
“Make sure it is cleanly done” he had called to Henry as he departed, and then he was gone.
Henry frowned as he continued on in the dark. He had since then gathered several more men to assist him, and his contingent now stood at about eight men who would do the cutting and the pulling, and several others who were there purely to assist as necessary. He thought however that once the cutting had begun then a larger crowd than that was almost a certainty.
Late last night he had loaded the sharpened axes, ropes and saws on to his small hand cart and Abraham Sprottle and Oliver Sulyard had driven the cart over to the churchyard where it would be watched over by the pair until just before dawn, at which point the two men would begin unloading the tools. Henry had considered going with the cart but he had reached the conclusion that a brisk walk for the mile or so to the church yard would clear his head for the long day that was ahead.
As he proceeded down the rough road dawn now began to take a hold and a few minutes later Henry extinguished his lamp as he no longer required it. He took a moment to check the lightening sky as he did so, and wondered if the clouds slowly ambling in over the hills to the west would bring rain. He was pleased however, to note that the air was quite still for an autumn morn, which he felt was a good sign. He continued on his way a little longer. Slowly he approached the small hill, on the other side of which he knew stood the small chapel. Already he could make out the high branches of the oak jutting above the rise in the road. He was nearly there.
Suddenly he stopped. He held his hand up. No wind. It was quite a calm morning. Somewhere far off in the distance a cock could be heard crowing. He looked at the branches of the oak once more. Scowling to himself he stared once more at the upper limbs of the tree, the base of which was concealed behind the hill. With alarm he began to wonder that if it was such a calm morning, why were the branches of the oak tree that he was about to cut down shaking slowly from side to side? With a startled cry he broke in to a run.
Over the hill. Down in to the church yard. Registering the small cart now unloaded beneath the base of the massive Oak. About which Abraham Sprottle and Oliver Sulyard were chopping at the tree with their axes. Judging by the size of the cut in the base of the oak they had been at it all night, and had by now probably cut a good third of the way through the trunk. As Henry raced between the grave stones the tree suddenly lurched a little to the left.
Directly towards the small church itself.
Gathering speed now Henry flew towards the now slightly frightened men who were looking up to the top of the tree in confusion and indecision.
“What are you doing?” screamed Henry as he raced across the graveyard. Then, at the top of his voice, “Stop! For God’s sake you fools, stop! The tree is going to fall on the church! Stop!”
Dad Comes To Visit
Now this must have been a Monday or maybe a Wednesday. Actually, it was Wednesday because it was fish and chips and it is always fish and chips on a Wednesday, see. Dai came down the stairs and sat on the couch with a right old strange expression on his face. I was watching a bit of telly at the time. Can’t really remember what. Anyway I said to him, “What’s up with your face then, Dai?” He looked at me in a kind of odd way and said, “Well now Gwen I don’t want to worry you but your Dad is sitting on the bed upstairs, like.” Now I laughed out loud at this and swore at him for a bit, which made him look kind of really pissed off. Well, sort of.
See, my
dad has been dead about eleven years now. IU knew the date so well as it was three years after my ma had died. Not that there was much chance of forgetting, Therefore, I concluded, there was not much likelihood that he was sitting on the bed upstairs. So, wondering what he was up to I decided to play along. “What’s he doing then?” I giggled, and for truth this seemed to make Dai even angrier. “He’s not doing nothing. Just sitting there.” Dai paused for a minute and looked quite serious. “I only went in to get a towel like, and he was just sitting there. Turned to me and said, “Hello Dai” and I kind of ran back out of the room. Gave me a right fright, so it did.”
It was only then that I realised that Dai’s hair was still wet. Turning off the Telly I stomped out of the room. “Alright then” I called to him as I went up the stairs. “I don’t know what you are up to but I will play along for now. I’ll just go and...” and when I opened the bedroom door there he was - my dad that is, sitting as large as life on the bed. Only thing was I could see the lamp on the other side of the bed right through him. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, and that’s the truth. “Hello Gwen” he said, smiling. “Hello dad.” I replied, feeling kind of strange inside, “what are you doing here then?”
Bob the Balloon, Al Capone and the Two Bob Bouncer Page 3
