The Traveller’s Joy
By Janet Baldey
“Half
of best, please love.”
Joy turned back to the pump, glancing at the clock;
still early and already her arm was aching, it’d be as numb as a block of wood
before the night was out. As amber
liquid foamed into the tankard, she thanked the Lord it had a good head. At least there’d be no moaning and groaning
that usually greeted the landlord’s watered-down brew. Not her fault, but she was the one who got it
in the neck. Certainly not Fred, who’d
disappear into the snug at the first hint of trouble. Like a bloody canary in a
coal mine, he was.
“That’ll be a tanner please, Bert. I know, I know. Goes up every week. But don’t
shoot the messenger. Ain’t me wot’s lining me pockets. What’s yours then, sweetheart?” Ignoring a
nagging pain in her back, she nodded to the next in line.
She was sick of both this job and the landlord; especially,
the landlord. Conniving bugger with his
weak beer and sky-high prices. She peeked
in his direction. Forget the canary, he
was crouching behind the bar like a fat, black spider with many eyes, each
following her every move, just in case she slipped a penny into her apron
pocket. That was the trouble with being
on the take, he thought everybody else had sticky fingers.
A sudden gust of wind buffeted the windows and icy
rain scoured the glass with a venom that made even the most hard-bitten look up
from their pints. Despite the smelly fug
of the bar, Joy shivered, glad to be inside, even if she did have to share the same
air as Fred and his cronies. She thought
she heard the creak of wood and glanced towards the door but it was set firm in
its frame. Must be the wind trying to
get in, she thought and if Fred didn’t do something about that lock, sooner or
later it would. She looked around the
bar; pity about the state of the place though.
Her Ma could remember when it was a prison, and swore it was in better
condition then. Fred had really let it
go. Sometimes, Joy daydreamed about what
she’d do if it were hers. For starters, she’d
sort out the state of the woodwork, inside and out, at the moment it was barely
good enough for woodworm. Then, she’d
paint it up and make it look smart. Ma
had showed her a picture once and the whole place used to be covered in some
sort of greenery, Old Man’s Beard, she called it. Used to look quite nice, ‘Was the only
thing holding the place together,’ Ma said.
But the first, and only, thing Fred did was to tear it all down and let
the world see how rough the timber was. Joy’s
lip curled as she looked around the bar at the greasy upholstery and chipped
tables.
“Blimey, it’s Frosty the Snowman!” Immediately, the would-be comic regretted his
quip and buried his face in his glass, for there was something oddly dignified
about the man standing in the doorway. With
a brisk, dog-shake of his body the stranger rid himself of hailstones clinging
to his clothes and stepped out their puddle towards the bar.
Fred jumped to his feet, almost spilling his beer.
“Out,” he bawled.
“No travellers here. Didn’t yer
read the sign?” He gestured towards a
board that read No travellers, no blacks, no Irish.
The man looked at him. “But it’s called The Travellers.” He pointed
out, mildly.
“Never you mind what it’s called. I run this place and I don’t want dirty
gyppos stinking the place out.” He nodded to his two mates who immediately
lurched to their feet and stood swaying, poised for action.
The traveller stared into Fred’s bloodshot eyes and
his lips moved. At the time, nobody
heard what he said, although several swore they did, but that was later.
Seconds passed, everyone held their breath, then
the man turned back towards the door.
The wind’s whine carolled into a scream as it was opened and Joy
shivered again. “Wouldn’t send a cur out
in weather like that” she muttered and at that moment, made up her mind.
With one swift movement, she ripped off her
apron. “Cover for me, will ya Fred. Gotta go, call of nature,” she yelled. Not waiting for his reaction, she dived down a
couple of steps into the kitchen. Stopping only to grab a bottle of beer and
hunk of pork pie, she wrenched her coat off its hook and flung it over her
head.
“Ere, mister. Wait up” she called into the whirling
snow through which she could just see the dim outline of a bow top. Puffing and blowing into the polar air she
slid to a stop beside the traveller who was standing at his pony’s head,
picking lumps of ice out of its mane.
“Sorry about Fred” she said, “he can be a misery
sometimes. Look, his girl’s got a pony
and she keeps it in the stable across the yard.
She’s off to the farriers but she didn’t reckon on this weather and anyway,
she’s sweet on the farrier’s son, so she won’t be back any time soon. You can take your ‘orse in there for a
while. There’s fresh hay and if you’re
lucky, a bit of bran mash. Quick, let’s get going, I gotta get back.” She led the way across the yard to the stable
and waited till the Bow Top rumbled to a stop and the horse was let out of its
shafts.
“Ere.” She thrust the beer and pie into the gypsy’s
hands and for the first time looked at him full on. Although his nut-brown face was seamed with
as many cracks as ancient leather, his eyes were bright and alive with
intelligence. The eyes of a young man
in an old man’s face, she thought and a sudden feeling of awe swept over
her.
“That’s very civil of you Missy, may I ask your
name?”
“It’s Joy sir; although me Ma sometimes says I
bring her more trouble than joy.”
“You are very kind, Miss Joy and kindness should
always be rewarded. Here…” reaching deep
into the pocket of his worn woollen coat, he held out a small sprig of heather.
“Take this, keep it safe and remember who gave it to you.”
Scampering back to take her place behind the bar,
Joy wondered what the old gypsy meant but words are cheap, soon forgotten and
she had work to do; she tucked the heather into her apron pocket. Sure enough, as the weeks passed nothing
changed but the seasons that is, until exactly six months later when Fred was
found drowned in a bowl of stew, his face bright purple, decorated with gravy
and shreds of gristle.
Although not a popular landlord, the mood was
sombre in the bar the evening after.
Unease lined every face as they lamented his demise, he wasn’t an old
man but his lifestyle didn’t bode well for old bones and many a pint was left
untasted as others vowed to cut back and take more walks. There was only one who didn’t join in the
general chorus of health-related consequences.
Jem stared into his tot of whisky before swallowing it down and clearing
his throat.
“Twere that gypsy.
Six months, he told ‘im, and six months he got. I said at the time, Fred should never have
messed with ‘im. He were no ordinary
tinker, pure Romany he was and them lot ‘ave powers.”
“Ah, get away wi’ you Jem. That whisky’s gone to yer head.”
“No, no. I
think Jem’s right. E did say six
months. I read ‘is lips…”
Discussion prowled the room and after a while Joy
switched off, although she did wonder.
After all, she’d had more to do with the traveller than the others. Had she sensed something? She gave herself a quick mental shake, she
had more important things to worry about.
Even though she’d been no fan of Fred’s, she’d wished him no ill and
what was going to happen now? Who would
be the new landlord and would she still have a job?
The next evening, she trudged back home her eyes all
but blinded with tears. There’d been a letter waiting for her when she’d
arrived at the pub and she never got letters.
It looked official and now tiredness and depression had convinced her
that it was her notice and she’d be out on her ear before the week ended. What
would she do then? There was no way that
she and her Ma could manage without her weekly pay packet, small though it was.
Anyway, she enjoyed her job. She was
fond of all her regulars, mostly they were lonely men, widowers like Bert and
Harry and there was Cliff whose wife had run off with a Yank. Of course. there was the odd ruffian, too fond
of his beer and his fists. Lord help their
wives, she often thought, but they were few and far between and tended to
congregate around Harry. Mostly, the
blokes were kind and treated her with respect.
There’d only been one who’d truly given her the creeps. Good looking chap and first she’d been
flattered when he started paying attention to her. Then, she’d looked up suddenly and caught him
by surprise. He was smiling but his eyes
raised goosebumps although the room was warm; completely expressionless with no
light or life, looking into them was like looking into a pair of empty
graves. Chilled, from then on, she kept
busy and did her best to ignore him but as the minutes ticked on she started to
dread the dark journey home. In the end, she asked Harry if she could walk
up the hill with him and he seemed to understand.
“Is that chap bothering you? “Don’t worry, me girl. If he comes back tomorrer, me and the lads
will have a word with him”.
Sure enough, he did come back and later she heard
fists talking in the yard. He never
showed his face again but a couple of days later a young girl was found
murdered near Rayleigh Weir and Joy couldn’t help wondering.
She wiped her face as she walked up the garden
path, no need to worry Ma. But once inside,
when she tried to read her letter, more tears welled and the words separated
into shapes that swam away like little fish.
In the end she had to ask her Ma for help.
“This is from a solicitor, what ‘ave you been up to
my girl?” Then, Ma squawked like next
door’s rooster.
“It says you’ve got to go and see them, to learn
something to your advantage. Oh, Joy. Wonder what it means?”
………
Joy finished polishing the bar and looked around
with a satisfied smile. Now the
refurbishment was completed, it looked lovely, just as she’d always imagined. But she
still had to keep pinching herself, fancy being made Manager with full control. She and Ma had moved into the pub so there
was no rent to pay and her wages had been doubled overnight. The rotten woodwork outside had been replaced
and painted a smoky green as a nod to the original Old Man’s Beard, otherwise
known as The Traveller’s Joy, which was now the pub’s official name. That was the first of two conditions to her
employment - the other being that there was always a welcome to anyone, whoever
he might be. Joy still didn’t know who the new owner was,
but he seemed to know about her which was a puzzle and no mistake, although the
solicitor had told her not to worry about it.
So, she didn’t, not really, although she made a point of doing what the
gypsy told her, and kept the sprig of heather in a safe place - just in case.
Copyright net Baldey
An excellent tale, good read, well up to your usual standard. Thank you for sharing it...
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