The Five Horseshoes

by David McDine

  Then he’d get a few quotes from the auctioneer and compare the latest sale figures to those of the previous auction. In his wallet he had the Mercury cutting of the story he had written about it, so, as he liked to tell his milksop juniors, it would merely be a case of changing the names and figures to protect the innocent. It was a phrase he had picked up from the Jack Webb movie Dragnet, and he rather fancied himself as a journalistic version of Sergeant Joe Friday.

  To balance his piece, he would get one of the farmers to say how the terrible English weather, and high cost of everything except your own livestock when you came to sell it, was making it harder and harder for poor farmers to survive.

  Always good for a whinge, were the farmers. And then they’d drive off in their nice new Land Rovers.

  Crow always enjoyed sale day. It was an easy thing to write up and a good opportunity to get well oiled at the Mercury’s expense, as he always charged a quid in expenses for buying farmers drinks, but kept his hand firmly in his pocket – and was occasionally treated by those he should be treating.

  Having quaffed his first pint, he made his way to the meadow at the back of the pub where the sale was about to start.

  The sales ring was made up of linked wooden hurdles keeping back a sea of cloth-capped farmers and small-holders looking to sell or increase their stock, and graziers intent on buying animals to fatten up in the nearby marshlands for the meat trade.

  The auctioneer, from the market town, was by far the best-dressed man in his velvet-collared British Warm overcoat. He was perched on a shooting stick brandishing a gold-topped walking cane and supported by his clerk whose job it was to record buyers and prices of each lot.

  First the sheep: wethers, ewes and lambs, each bearing their owner’s mark in various shades of dye, were hustled into the ring from nearby holding pens in groups of a dozen or so. There were a few lively rams to come, and the cattle: cows, heifers, steers and a couple of bulls, would be the last to be auctioned.

  Crow was not himself of farming stock, but he did know that wethers and steers were male sheep and cattle that had suffered the unkindest cut of all and were no longer interested in the females of their species.

  Ewes and cows, he also knew, had already produced offspring, and heifers were cows that had yet to calve. Rams and bulls, were, well, rams and bulls that in polite society were known as intact.

  A clanging handbell heralded the arrival of the first lot, ten crossbred lambs, and the auctioneer got to work running up the price in response to bids from ringside that were often little more than a twitch of hand, head or stick, and would not have been picked up at all by anyone new to the scene.

  Elbows resting on one of the wattles, the reporter allowed his gaze to roam around the sales ring and, as he did so, something struck him as being odd.

  Puzzled, he asked the ruddy-faced farmer next to him, ‘Strange how a lot of these locals look alike, isn’t it?’

  The farmer took his pipe out of his mouth and smiled a gap-toothed smile. ‘Mebbe it’s the cloth caps...’

  Thinking about it, Crow recalled that the picture of the sales ring that the Mercury photographer snapped at the last sale did look rather like a scene from a cloth cap convention.

  But he shook his head. ‘I see what you’re saying, but, no, what I mean is that a lot of them actually look alike – as if they’re related.’

  The farmer’s grin broadened. ‘Mebbe they are. Well quite a few of ’em, anyways.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Well, y’see, round ’ere afore the war, long afore everyone had cars, motorbikes and suchlike, there was only four blokes what ’ad push bikes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, they was the ones what rode orf to the village dances. Used to have a dance every fortnight in one or other of the village halls round here. Still do in some parts. Les Smith and his band mostly. Waltzes, quick steps, foxtrots, Palais Glides, Gay Gordons and all that.’

  In the background the sale was progressing apace, with sheep lots being driven into the ring, the auctioneer calling out near incomprehensible figures and banging his cane on a wattle to mark each winning bid.

  But for the moment Crow was oblivious to all that. Instead he continued quizzing his new-found farmer friend, ‘So that’s where the young people got together – to dance?’

  The farmer shook his head. ‘Oh no, the boys didn’t dance. Not the ones what were old enough to drink. They’d go off to the local village pub until closing time. It’s the old people and the girls what danced – together, I mean. The boys turned up after chucking out time and stood together down by the door. We felt safer in a bunch, like.’

  Crow twigged. ‘You were one of them?’

  ‘Mebbe, mebbe not. Anyways, the bolder, or drunker, ones would wait ’til the end and grab a girl they fancied for the last waltz.’

  ‘So how come so many people look as if they’re related?’

  The farmer touched his nose as if he was about to reveal a state secret and looked around to make sure no-one was eavesdropping. ‘Well, y’see, the village girls liked a bit of fresh meat, from outside like, rather than getting orf with a second cousin or some boy they sat next to at the village school.’

  Crow was puzzled. ‘But getting orf, I mean off, with outsiders would mean bringing in new blood, so I still don’t see why so many of these people look like they’re related.’

  ‘Ah,’ the farmer lowered his voice and said conspiratorially, ‘it’s like this, y’see, what they say round these parts is that most people haven’t got forefathers. They’ve got any one of four fathers...’

  Finally Crow understood. ‘The ones with the bikes?’

  ‘You got it.’

  * * *

  Wondering if he had just been had, Crow returned to the public bar, where the beer flowed steadily all day, for a much-needed second pint.

  It was crowded with farmers, some who had already made a successful bid and others waiting to try and buy a later lot.

  They jostled for position as close as possible to the bar counter, a thick fug of smoke hung over them and it was difficult to make yourself heard above the babble of conversation.

  Men who seldom mixed with others as they went about their daily work swapped news and stories with their fellow horny-handed sons of the soil, their tongues loosened by the alcohol that had unlocked their pent-up desire to commune with their fellows. The talk was all of farming, who their sons and daughters were courting, and, of course, the sale.

  Only one of the drinkers, unnoticed by any of the others, kept himself to himself in a corner.

  After witnessing such a sale as a boy, Norman the commuter had never been able to bring himself to watch another. To him, it was no better than a slave market, albeit for animals rather than humans.

  He would not have been there at all if the sale had not coincided with what in the Civil Service is euphemistically known as a privilege day. He did not wish to spend it alone at home now that his mother was unconscious and near death in hospital, where he would visit her later.

  For now, it was a kind of therapy to hide away in a corner of the crowded bar nursing a half pint and dreaming of a different sort of animal altogether. His mind was more on the wildlife of the African plains and the Australian bush than the sheep and cattle changing hands that day. And a crowded bar, he had found, was a good place to hide if you didn’t want to get dragged into an unwanted conversation.

  If the public bar was a hive of activity on sale day, the snug was a haven of peace. By tradition it was strictly reserved for the auctioneer and his clerk.

  For once Glad had finished baking her pies early and on this special day cooked a proper meal, appropriately roast lamb with mint sauce and three veg, followed by apple pie, cream and a block of mousetrap cheese with biscuits. There would be enough for four, because, again by tradition, the auctioneer always treated the two highest bidders of the day to a free meal.

  As for Horace, on sale days he would have
to settle for the same dodgy pies as the rest of the lower orders. But then, over the years his gut had grown accustomed to them, much as dung beetles become used to their daily fare.

  * * *

  After a longish break for lunch, the sale went on well into the afternoon, and as it came to an end local buyers drove their newly-purchased animals home across the common, and the cattle lorries were loaded up to take those from further afield.

  The wattles were collected up with a tractor and trailer and soon the field was empty again, awaiting the arrival of the odd weekend caravanners and campers the following spring.

  As evening wore on, in the public bar the successful sellers continued to drink some of their profits before wending their way unsteadily home.

  The village bobby, PC Alf Midgley, on hand all day to ensure that the sale was trouble-free, had been smuggled with his visiting sergeant into the back parlour during the afternoon for a much-deserved pint.

  Now he waited outside astride his trusty Noddy bike to see that the merry farming folk left in an orderly fashion, telling one obviously inebriated smallholder, ‘Steady there, Willie. Take care you drive home slowly and in a straight line. The sergeant might still be about.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Raised Spirits

  Crow made it a point of honour to be one of the last at the bar, watching Horace and Glad collecting up glasses and emptying overflowing ashtrays. ‘So, have you made your fortunes?’ he asked.

  Glad gave him a less than glad look.

  ‘Didn’t do too bad, did we?’ Horace ventured. ‘But of course, like we said the other night, the sale is a one-off, well two-off as it’s twice yearly. What we need is something to draw the punters in on a daily basis, not just rely on a couple of days like today and a few busy weekends in the summer.’

  Crow, loquacious in drink and hoping to be offered a nightcap, nodded enthusiastically. ‘What you need is a bit of exposure.’

  Horace winced at the mental image of Glad exposing any more of herself than was strictly necessary.

  The reporter had registered Glad’s raised eyebrow and moved quickly to avoid one of her withering put-downs. He spluttered, ‘By exposure, I mean a headline, dear lady...’

  Horace exhaled with relief and Glad lowered her eyebrow.

  Crow burbled on, ‘But you won’t get any headlines from the half-yearly sheep and cattle sale, even in the Mercury. You’d need at least a two-headed sheep to go berserk.’

  ‘Will you join us in a nightcap?’ Horace asked, so unexpectedly that Crow nearly choked on his fag.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Scotch, please. Double if you like.’

  ‘Spirits, after all that beer?’ Glad more commented than asked.

  Crow ignored the slight, and, as Horace operated the whisky optic, twice, the journalist punched the air. ‘Yes, that’s it!’

  ‘That’s what?’ asked Glad.

  ‘That’s just what you need. Spirits, well a spirit. What you need to grab a headline is a resident ghost...’

  Horace dispensed himself a double. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘now you come to mention it, some of the old locals do tell of a ghostly five-legged horse that they reckon gave its name to the pub. Five Horseshoes, you see?’

  He poured a single gin for Glad. No sense in getting the old girl to the morbid stage. ‘But we don’t believe it ourselves, do we Glad? Funny as how whenever someone reckons to have seen it, it’s only ever after closing time when they’ve had a skinful. What I reckon is that the pub probably got its name just because the first landlord happened to have five horseshoes hanging about gathering dust and put ’em up so’s them as couldn’t read would know where they were.’

  Crow mused. ‘Hmm, a ghostly five-legged horse?’ But he shook his head, dismissing the thought. ‘Nah, no-one’s going to fall for that. We need to be a bit more subtle...’

  He warmed to the idea. ‘What we need is a proper ghost, or one of those polter-whatsits – you know, a poltergeist. One of those mischievous spirits that knocks things over, turns the light on and off when there’s no-one near the switches, makes people’s beer disappear. That sort of thing.’

  Horace grinned. ‘There’s quite a few that get in here who can make beer disappear quick as you like. The way some of ’em throw it back it don’t hardly touch the sides on its way down.’

  Crow looked around to make sure no-one else was listening and said, conspiratorially, ‘Look, I did a story about a poltergeist down at Little Snuffington years ago. Some expert reckoned they’re caused by someone’s emotional disturbance, usually a woman, or so he said.’

  Glad raised an eyebrow again.

  The journalist hastened to reassure her. ‘It wouldn’t be the likes of you, of course dear lady. You’re made of sterner stuff...’

  ‘You can say that again,’ muttered Horace, only to find Glad’s deathray look zeroing in on him.

  Crow ploughed on. ‘They had objects moving around on their own, strange banging noises without any obvious cause, strange odours and mysterious writing appearing on walls...’

  ‘We get quite a bit of that in the loos,’ Horace volunteered.

  ‘Things flung at people, being pushed around by some unseen presence...’

  Horace could have said that both had happened to him when Glad had downed a gin too many, but with the known presence responsible at his elbow he wisely chose to hold his tongue.

  ‘Look, this could be good for trade and good for me. I’d get a headline in the Mercury and I might even be able to sell it to the nationals. But it’s got to have a peg.’

  ‘What d’you mean, a coat hook?’

  ‘No, no. A story like this needs to have a peg – something definite to hang it on, stand it up.’

  ‘He means to give it credibility.’ All three turned, startled, at the sound of Norman’s voice from his seat in the corner. Normally he was seen and not heard and they had forgotten he was still there.

  Crow nodded enthusiastically. ‘That’s right. You’ve got it in one! And I’ve thought of a way we can give it credibility.’

  Norman got up and put his empty glass on the counter. ‘I’ll say goodnight to you and leave you to your, er, spirits...’

  But they hardly noticed him going and Horace asked, ‘What’s this credibility thing then?’

  The reporter grinned. ‘The vicar. You know, Reverend Whatshisname, the local man who’s always going on about how people should play the game of life as if it’s a cricket match.’

  The incumbent of St Mary’s was indeed a cricket fanatic and managed to introduce references to the game of flannelled fools into most of his sermons and everyday utterances.

  Horace asked, ‘What about him?’

  ‘Well, we could get the vicar to come and perform a whatsit – an exorcism.’

  Glad had never heard of such a thing. ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘Well, dear lady, it’s like a service where your clergyman says prayers and suchlike, casting out the evil spirit.

  ‘Tells it to eff off, sort of thing?’ Horace queried.

  Crow nodded. ‘That’s it in a nutshell. If you can get him to perform an exorcism, well, that’s a peg, a news peg. That’d stand the whole thing up.’

  ‘Even if it’s not true?’ asked Glad.

  Crow tossed back the last dregs of his double whisky. ‘Never let the truth get in the way of a good story, I always say, dear lady.’

  Oblivious to her scorn, the reporter smirked. ‘Anyway, who’s to say you haven’t got a real poltergeist here? Remember that bottle jumping off the shelf when I was here last week?’

  Glad glared. ‘That shelf’s wonky. If I’ve told Horace once I’ve told him a thousand times...’

  But Crow ploughed on. ‘And what about that time when your cellar hatches were left open? Might not have been the draymen – or you. Might have been...’

  ‘A real poltergeist!’ Horace exclaimed excitedly.

  ‘Exactly! So we have ourselves a story that m
ay even be true...’

  Ever sceptical, Glad muttered, ‘That’d make a change.’

  But again Crow ignored the barb, examined his empty glass and announced, ‘Now, I think I’ve just got room for one more for the road...’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Come-on

  Next morning, after cleaning the beer pumps and bottling up from the crates in the cellar to fill the racks behind the bar that had been ravaged by the sale day excesses, Horace looked up the vicar’s phone number.

  Not being one to call on the clergy or the uniformed emergency services other than the odd times when customers had dropped dead in the bar, it was not the kind of number he had at his fingertips.

  Having found it, he dialled, but there was no immediate answer and after listening to it ringing out for a while he put the phone down.

  Later, during a lull in the almost non-existent public bar trade, he tried again and was startled when this time it crackled and a sepulchral voice announced, ‘St Mary’s vicarage. Vicar speaking, how may I help?’

  Horace was temporarily taken aback. Surely they weren’t sending vicars on customer relations courses these days?

  ‘Oh, hello there, vicar. Sorry to trouble you...’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Horace, the landlord down at the Shoes.’

  ‘Has someone died?’

  ‘No, should they have?’

  The vicar had been dragged away from watching a televised cricket match and there was more than a hint of acid in his reply. ‘Well, I normally only see you at a wake following one of your customers’ funerals.’

  The vicar was well aware of the publican’s boast that he had only been to church twice, to get baptised and married, and he would only go once more – wearing an oak casket with brass handles. It was also true that Horace did not even attend his regulars’ funerals, always claiming that he needed to be back at the Shoes ready for when the thirsty mourners arrived.

  ‘Ah yes, well said, vicar. Good point well brought out. I’m not much of a God-botherer, you see. I reckon he’s got enough on his plate what with wars, famines, deathwatch beetles and whatever.’