THE COUP DE GRACE 

by Richard Banks           

Mr Dunlop shut the front door and turned around the open sign so that it showed closed. As usual, there was paperwork to be done, receipts to be counted, but today was Thursday, and Thursdays were different. He let down the Venetian blind that covered the glass panel in the door and in the second or two it took him to close the slats peered nervously into the darkness outside.

      In the pharmacy behind the counter, Janice was unpacking the day’s delivery of pharmaceuticals. She had almost finished. In a few minutes, she would retreat to the bathroom and exchange the white overalls she was wearing for the outer garments she arrived in. Mr Dunlop emptied the cash register and placed both banknotes and coins in the safe. He would count them tomorrow. Next door the sound of footsteps was followed by the closing of the bathroom door and the splash of water signaling that Janice had discarded her overalls and blouse and was about to wash her arms and face. If it had not been Thursday he might have followed her there, for he often did and they would…, but it was Thursday and, although Janice did not know what Mr Dunlop knew, they both knew that Thursday’s were different. The bathroom door opened and Janice re-entered the pharmacy wearing the suede jacket that Mr Dunlop had recently brought her.

      “Are we still on for tomorrow?” she asked. For a moment she feared that he would say no, that he had no choice but to spend the evening at home with Irene. To her relief, he nodded, and although his parting kiss had not its usual warmth she sensed that nothing had changed between them. He let her out through the front door, waited several minutes, and then switched the light off and on three times to signal he was alone. 

      On the other side of the street, the glow of a cigarette in the unlit doorway of a vacant shop revealed the presence of someone otherwise unseen. The road was empty now, time for him to make his move, to be in and out with no one the wiser. He crossed the road and pushed at the door which he knew would be unlocked. As usual, Mr Dunlop was sitting behind the counter, grim faced, unwelcoming.            

      The young man closed the door behind him, his face contorting into an affectionless smile. “Hello uncle, how are you today?” 

      Mr Dunlop regarded him with wary distaste. Once he felt pity for him, now he had none. He left that to others, to those who saw only the dirt and neglect of a homeless vagrant. But he saw more, saw deeper, knew the corruption within. 

      Having received no response to his question the young man tried again. “Aunty Irene well, I hope.” 

      Mr Dunlop felt anger. What did the boy care for Irene, or anyone else for that matter? He nodded, not in response to the question asked, but at a box he had placed on the otherwise empty counter.

      The young man approached the box as though drawn by a magnet. “Have you got the ones I wanted?”

      “Yes. It’s all there, one hundred tablets.” He sensed that the young man was about to say that one hundred was not enough, that he needed more, instead he snatched-up the box and after a brief examination of its contents thrust it into the hip pocket of his overcoat. The young man considered whether to leave, or if something further needed to be said about Janice. His uncle would not have forgotten his threats, but sometimes it was necessary to reinforce a message, to remind him who was in charge. 

      His mind travelled back to the event that put him in charge. He had gone to his uncle’s shop, just before closing time, hoping to lift a few pills but no one was on the counter. Sensing an opportunity he pushed open the pharmacy door and peered inside. Again, there was no one to be seen. He entered, scouring the shelves for a familiar name or label, moving in crab like strides towards the restroom where Uncle Harold cooked lunch and read the ’paper. As he neared the half open door, a movement in his peripheral vision coincided with the sound of heavy breathing that grew in volume until it became an urgent gulping-in of air. For a moment he thought his uncle had been taken ill, then he saw them together on the sofa, saw Janice’s horror struck expression as she stared back at him, and the rise and fall of his uncle’s plump bottom. As she screamed he fled in panic, fearing the consequences for himself, but when, the following day, nothing had been said or done he realised that the person in trouble was not himself but Uncle Harold. An opportunity had come his way. At first, there was no need for threats. He had only to mention Janice and his uncle would be reduced to a nervous quiver. 

      “Don’t worry uncle, your secret’s safe with me,” he would say, and then, in an apparent non-sequitur, express his disappointment that he had insufficient money to go to the cinema. At first, his uncle paid him with money from the till, five pounds, then ten pounds but when ten pounds became twenty they agreed to use the currency of prescription drugs.     

      Mr Dunlop stared stony faced at his nephew. He couldn’t wait to see the back of him, but the young man showed no sign of leaving. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “It’s no good asking for more. There isn’t any. Since that new place opened I’m barely breaking even.” For a moment his dark thoughts about his nephew were eclipsed by his animosity for DayNite Pharmacy. His nephew smiled another affectionless smile and, after ‘assuring’ Mr Dunlop that he would be back the following week, left the shop.     

     Mr Dunlop locked the front door and turned out the lights. Irene would be cooking dinner; he needed to get home before it spoiled. He anticipated the questions she would ask, “how’s business? is it up on last week? isn’t there anything we can do to stop losing trade?” 

      As the owner of the business founded by her father, she had every right to ask such questions and, as her manager, his job was to find solutions. How fortunate then that at last he had found one. A solution that also solved his other problem.    

      For now, there was nothing to be done, just wait until his nephew ingested one of the pills he had added to the bottle of anti-depressants that bore the DayNite label. His death would be a painful one - no more than he deserved. The repercussions to the pharmacy that apparently supplied the pills would also be painful. Even if they weren’t closed down who would do business with them after that. It was, as his old history teacher was fond of saying, the coup de grace.

The End

Copyright Richard Banks

 

   

 

 

Uncle Charlie’s Mobile home

 Uncle Charlie’s Mobile home

By Len Morgan

I recall it all even though, it happened more than 30 years ago. I asked Sheila, my sister, if she remembered our trips.  She said not, so I really had to double-think, maybe I was dreaming?

In the dreams, Uncle Charlie would take me and Sheila out in his Camper Van. I remember he called her Betty. She was, bright yellow with Peace, flowers, and mystic signs painted all over her.  We would travel out into the Essex countryside then he’d ask where we would like to go…

I remember it was Sheila’s turn to choose… “Let’s go to Scotland,” she said.

“How would you suggest we travel Kevin?” he’d ask me.

“Let’s go by steam train, the Flying Scotsman,” I said.  And Betty would whiz & spin like a Catherine wheel, when she stopped we were in a train carriage attached to the Flying Scotsman.  You must understand, this was not our first adventure with Charlie & Betty, so we were not phased by the transformation. And so this adventure began. We watched the countryside flashing by and when we opened the windows we could smell the steam and hear the familiar rhythmic sounds from the engine.  In next to no time we were in Glasgow, then on to Stirling, & finally Edinburgh.  When we left the station, our faithful Betty was waiting kerbside to take us where we wanted to go next.  Princes Street first to get a present for Mum, then to a nice restaurant for a meal. 

“Where next?” Charlie asked.

“the Zoo…” said Sheila.

“Oh yes please,” said I.

“Well your in luck kids, I just happen to have three tickets for the chimpanzees' tea party,”

What a day that was, and we were still home in time for tea.

.-...-. 

At another time we visited Dickensian London, and Betty became a street cab.  We actually saw Charlie's namesake Mr Dickens and his home at 48 Doughty Street.  We waved to him, he smiled and waved back at us. 

 Another visit took us farther afield, to the USA, New York and the Wild West!  Betty became a stagecoach New York was smelly and overcrowded so we went on to Buffalo where we met Mark Twain, he spoke with a strange accent, nothing like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn. 

at various times in my memories, Betty became a submarine, a hot air balloon, a helicopter, an airplane, and a spaceship.

.-...-. 

Sadly, as we got older Uncle Charlie's visits became less frequent.  It’s been 16 years now since his last visit.  We were all so busy with school, university, and work.  Guess we just forgot about him and his distinctive companion ~ Betty.  But, how could we ever forget those wonderful adventures?  Sheila says it was all in my mind, but looking around I can see the many souvenirs we brought back for Mum…

Today I received an official letter from Uncle Charlie’s solicitors.  Informing me that he had sadly passed away peacefully, at a Nursing home in Saffron Walden.  The letter explained that he'd left various bequests to friends and family.  He sent me two dozen gold coins, in plastic wallets, that he'd collected on his travels. I was asked to look out for a special delivery tomorrow 08/04/2023. 

I smiled when I saw a car transporter unloading a bright yellow Betty, embellished with flowers and magic symbols, it seemed untouched by the passage of time!  I smiled sadly remembering Charlie; wondering ‘where I would go’ as the transporter driver handed me the keys to Betty.  

I have no children but, I think I might take Sheila’s twins David & Katie for a drive; just for old time's sake…

Copyright Len Morgan

 Recycling

By Sis Unsworth 

My husband built a sun house, out of his old shed,

“it will benefit the family,” well, that is what he said.

Of course it was a lot of work, but he said,”it would look smart,”

inspired by his new project, he made an early start.

He worked on the new sun house, every dry warm day,

also he would venture out, even when the sky was grey.

At last the glass doors were put on, and he gave out a cheer,

but then he promptly went inside, for a celebration beer.

“I have to paint the inside now,” he added with a smile,

“I want it to look perfect, it just might take a while.”

Our friends and neighbours visit us, and love to sit inside,

It’s nice and warm there in the spring, a good place to abide.

You feel at one with nature, watching birds build their nests,

we don’t disturb their way of life, they make us feel like guests,

we’ve placed a bee hotel, outside where we can see,

a haven for a resting place, for a solitary bee.

The sun house stands in pride of place, for all who care to see,

the one he said, that he would make, “for all the family.”

I always know I’ll find him, whatever may be said,

asleep in his new sun house, that he made from his old shed.

 

Copyright Sis Unsworth

A HAIGA from Rob

 Gifted

By Robert Kingston

HINDSIGHT

 HINDSIGHT 

By Richard Banks 

The first time I started seeing things was from beneath the shelter of my umbrella on the corner of Dean Stanley Street and Millbank. The rain was about to turn to sleet and the girl I had arranged to meet was nowhere in sight. I was, I admit, in a state of nervous agitation, cold, wet through from the knees down and very much fearing that I had been stood up. Two minutes later she made her entrance, alighting from a number 87 bus which she blamed for her late arrival. By then she was out of my thoughts, almost forgotten.

 

         “Hi,” I said, the stunned surprise in my voice only too apparent.

         “What’s wrong?” she asked. 

         “Nothing,” I replied. “Didn’t recognise you in that mac. Is it new?” 

         It wasn’t. In fact it was the one she had been wearing on our first date. It was not a good start to an evening for which I had high hopes. Thereafter it improved – it could not have got worse – and we had dinner at Pizzaland followed by a West End show for which I had discounted tickets. 

         I never did tell her what I saw in the thirty seconds or so before her arrival. But then, how  do you explain seeing a black robed monk walk down the middle of the road, heedless of the rush hour traffic and the rain which should have soaked him but had no way of doing so. And if that wasn’t enough, watching him being struck by a Waitrose delivery van - a collision that had no visible impact on monk or van - before turning right and disappearing from sight through a stone wall that would have repulsed a ten ton truck.        

        Had I related these details to Julie, the girl I was dating, I have little doubt that this, our third date, would also have been our last. In fact I needn’t have worried, three weeks later she abandoned me for a young man who drove a two seater sports car and took her for lunch at the Savoy. Even so I’m glad I said nothing. What I had seen was weird, too weird to let on to anyone else, particularly a young woman I was hoping to attract, not repel. 

         Normal is what I wanted to be, a nice, straightforward, uncomplicated guy at ease with himself and the world about him. This did not include the seeing of the monk, a monk who - had I seen what I thought I had seen - could only be a ghost. Either that or there was something very wrong with my mental functioning. As I didn’t believe in ghosts it seemed only logical I should confess all to the medical profession and swallow whatever tablets they prescribed.        

         Fortunately, I made my confession to Herbie Sutcliffe in the public bar of the Westminster Tavern. Quite what I was expecting him to do or say I don’t know, after five pints of Newcastle Brown my thinking was less than clear, but instead of him expressing the grave concern that seemed appropriate to my disclosure he was as cheerful as a semi-inebriated man could hope to be. Against all reason and expectation, I could not have chosen a better person to confide in. 

         Herbie, when he wasn’t making a bob or two flogging second hand books from a market stall, was a tourist guide operating in and around Westminster Abbey. In the next few minutes he told me everything I needed to hear. The monk, he said, was affectionately known as Old Skinhead on account of his tonsure which had laid bare a large part of his scalp. All that was known of him was that he was a Benedictine monk from the twelfth or thirteenth centuries. He had been seen not only by Herbie but by one other guide and a few of their clients. Seeing Skinhead, he asserted, was a gift, not a curse. It was a precious moment in history that I had witnessed, an insignificant but fascinating insight into the distant past. “There was nothing to be afraid of. Some people can see such things, others can’t. Be glad that you can. Who knows what wonderful things you might see: the coronation of a King or Queen, the arrest of Guy Fawkes, the trial of Charles I, or maybe an unknown slice of history, suppressed and excluded from the public record; ripples in time that make you a looking glass into another age. Believe me there’s not an historian alive who wouldn’t give everything he had to be like you.” 

         “So will it keep happening?” 

         “Bound to, it’s not like a TV you can switch on and off. Now it’s started this is you for the rest of your life. We should be celebrating your good fortune. So get along to the bar and buy the next round.” 

         I did, and although I had one heck of a hangover the next morning it was nothing to the realisation that I was not only normal but at the same time kind of special. Nevertheless, it was a talent I thought best kept to myself and at first only one other person apart from myself knew that my senses numbered more than five. I was, as Herbie almost said, like a TV set without an on and off switch, and although the transmissions came whenever they had a mind to they seldom numbered more than three a week. Almost always they are of ordinary people going about their working life. Sometimes they are at their leisure - at fairs, in the tavern, playing skittles, singing, dancing - and sometimes at prayer in their churches. There are thieves and vagabonds, but mostly the folk I see are honest strivers who work hard to live and are more than deserving of their small pleasures. 

         Despite Herbie’s fond hope that I would, one day, see a King or Queen my ‘visions’ have so far only identified one person I have been able to put a name to. I was at Stamford Bridge watching a less than enthralling nil nil draw between Chelsea and Derby when in a much more entertaining match a burly centre forward rose majestically above the other players to head the ball into the goal with such force that it rebounded back onto the field of play. The player wiped a muddy smear from his forehead and, with the air of a man who had done no more than what was expected of him, jogged back to the half way line for the resumption of play. Immediately, two things were clear to me: one, that his playing kit belonged to the early days of club football; and two, that I would never forget that dour, moustachioed face. A month later I saw him again on a cigarette card, one of a set of thirty players published in 1908. He was, according to the information on the reverse side of the photograph a Scottish international by the name of Billy Steele who played his club football for Newcastle. If I needed any further proof – which I didn’t – he was wearing the same black and white striped shirt in which I saw him play. As for famous events I once saw a riot of which I can tell you little beyond the fact that windows were broken and the rioters put to flight by soldiers on horseback. That this first happened in the early 1800s was apparent to me from the clothing of those taking part.

         All this I kept to myself in the pursuit of ‘normal’ but as I was beginning to find out there are many shades of normal and some of us have little choice but to be what we are. My next eureka moment came when I was having five o’clock tea at my mother’s house and a soldier in chain mail armour came striding through the wall against which our table was placed and, without upsetting anything on it, continued straight ahead before disappearing through the party wall into number 56. Although I had by this time become well practised at concealing surprise or alarm the sudden appearance of the warrior, sword in hand, caused me to emit a startled cry from what was, no doubt, an equally startled face.

         My mother’s reaction was restricted to a few words of weary resignation, “Oh no, not you as well.”

         “As well as who?” I asked. 

         To cut short a long story that was not allowed to commence before tea had been eaten and the dishes washed I was told the family secret that had up to then been kept from me. My father also had the ‘scourge’ as my mother called it and once jumped off Lambeth Bridge to avoid a runaway hansom cab that had mounted the pavement. Fearing that the incident would do nothing to advance his career in the Midland Bank he claimed to have jumped into the Thames to rescue a dog caught up in the current, an act of heroism widely reported in the local press which may well have influenced the bank to promote him to First Cashier. Thereafter he had no other choice but to conceal his ghostly visitations which he did by tightly closing his eyes on the pretence that he was light sensitive and sometimes needed to rest his eyes. Unsurprisingly this did not go down well with his line manager who expected his front desk staff to keep their eyes open when receiving or dispensing the bank’s cash. Rather than terminate his employment it was decided to transfer him to a backroom job that he did for the next seven years until he died at his desk from a heart attack, his eyes tight shut. 

         “Well, he did what he could, I suppose,” my mother said, evidently unimpressed by my father’s efforts to make good. “Can’t be blaming him too much for the way he was. His father and grandfather were just as bad. Caught it from them, I don’t doubt. Would never have married your father had I known what I was letting myself in for but he kept it from me until we were wed; too late then to say no then. Don’t do that to any girl you have a mind to marry, better still don’t marry. No good will ever come of it.”

         Needless to say I returned to my small bed sit sadly reflecting on everything my mother had said. To her my father’s unusual ability to see into the past was a curse to be kept secret at all costs, and in the ’50s when conformity was valued above all else, it is not difficult to understand why she felt that way. My father, who died when I was ten, evidently took the same view and far from taking any pleasure in his visions found them a cause of stress and unhappiness which no doubt shortened his life. I determined not to make the same mistake. As Herbie said, I had a gift not a curse and in an age more forgiving of those who are different I have no intention of being anyone but myself.

         However, one thing my mother and I were agreed on was that any girl likely to become my partner in life had to be fully aware of what she was taking on. I therefore resolved that on a fifth date I would explain all and leave it entirely to her as to whether or not we went on to date six. It was an honourable way forward but not one that got me past five until I discovered that Herbie had a kid sister, ten years his junior but only one year younger than myself. Like Herbie she also had the gift and loved every moment of it, claiming to have witnessed the Siege of Sidney Street and the coronation of Charles II. She also had the most wonderful head of cascading blond hair, a kind face and blue eyes that sparkled with the joy and wonder of life past and present. 

         Leila and myself have been together now for nearly seven years. Our separate visions we share with each other like other couples talk about films or plays they have seen. Sometimes we have the same vision, see the same things and compare our sometimes varying perceptions of what has come our way. Whatever we see, good or bad, we are drawn ever closer together.

 

         Sometimes I think of my father and feel sad.

                                                                                                           

MAG

                                                                                                                      2 July1978

A memoir found among the papers of the novelist and spiritualist, Martin A Greening, 1947-2020.

Reproduced here by kind permission of his son and executor, William Herbert Greening.

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 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.  Lot of work to be done and a fortune to be spent no doubt.  Again, she heard the creak of wood and stepped out of her daydream as this time the door did more than shiver, it swung open with a crash that sent loose plaster spraying from the ceiling.  In the silence that followed, Joy clearly heard mice in the wainscoting as everybody’s eyes swivelled towards the entrance. 

“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

 A BITTER TASTE

Peter Woodgate

I look at the barmaid through an empty glass

As the last drop of liquid slides down my throat

I fumble through pockets each side of my jeans

Finding them empty I turn to my coat.

I manage a smile as I grasp some loose change

And thump the glass down and ask for another

She gives me a smile and replies with the words

You’ve had enough darling go home to your mother.

Everyone knows I’ve had a big row

My wife’s kicked me out and I’ve gone home to mum

All I have left is to visit the pub

And drown all my sorrows one after one.

But hang on a moment that girl in the corner

She’s wearing a blouse with pink and white lace

I stumble towards her my luck may be in

It’s then that I trip and fall flat on my face.

So to all those poor fellows who know what it’s like

To feel so dejected their lives full of woe

Don’t bother with women they just give you grief

Stick to the booze but drink nice and slow.

 

Copyright Peter Woodgate