Which was very ingenious, and more than a little bit prominent. Just the thing for getting the punters going over the decision of another pint or not - salt and vinegar or ready salted crisps, etc. etc. Which is just what made the sign above it a stroke of true public house genius. It was a small brass plaque, carefully beaten and deliberately scuffed to make it look as if it were authentically old, rather than knocked up in the back shed a few weeks ago, which it actually was.
It read, "Who so ever can draw a flame from this lighter shall sup free at the Bucket and Shovel for the rest of their days".
And so time passed.
The lighter became a focal part of the pub – and it was taken for sure that anyone who visited made a bee-line for the lighter – in fact, much to Charlie’s delight a few of the local rags published articles on it, ensuring Charlie shifted a few more barrels of best bitter and the occasional pickled egg. The lighter, however, remained resolutely unlit. No matter how hard – or softly it was attempted, the lighter just would not light at all. To Charlie it became a novelty, then a piece of furniture, and eventually he would catch himself gazing at it as if he had only just noticed it for the first time, and he would snap out of his reverie and the lighter would become furniture once again.
More time passed.
It could be argued that Charlie was in a good place to be. He enjoyed his stewardship of the pub, repelled all challenges to his authority with ease, and continued to make both himself and the brewery happy by shifting beer by the barrel and keeping his supply of pickled eggs and various tasty snacks on the up and up. Still the lighter attracted the occasional punter, but by and large the regulars came to see it as furniture too, which means they stopped seeing it at all. From time to time someone would pick it up, rattle the chain (to which the lighter remained resolutely attached – Charlie was no fool on that score), and perhaps try to light it. To no avail. The crowds of people who had previously pondered on the lettering on it – was that an “E” or a “Y” more or less gave up trying to decipher the text and by and large the lighter was forgotten.
Even to Alf. As the postman to Cressington gardens and the surrounding areas, Alf was partial to a mid-shift elevenses of an alcoholic kind, and as his “walk” as he liked to refer to it took in the Bucket and Shovel, it was not so much a temptation as a certainty that at round about 11 o’clock Alf and Charlie would be engaged in passing the news of the day while Alf delivered the mail and afforded himself of a pint of best (and usually on Fridays) a packet of dry roast too.
To Charlie, in the line of the latest of what seemed to be an on-going series of mysteries, it was the Friday when the letter first arrived.
“Letter for you, Charlie” mumbled Alf through a mouth full of half chewed nuts. Charlie had recently discovered the erasing properties of nail varnish remover on sell by dates printed on packets of crisps and nuts, and therefore the nuts were a little chewier than perhaps they should have been.
“Looks a bit fancy too” said Alf as he passed the envelope to Alf. Charlie couldn’t help but agree – the embossed envelope with what looked like hand written fancy writing was certainly a cut above the usual brown envelopes that Charlie reluctantly removed from Alf on what seemed like a daily basis.
Charlie took it from Alf and propped it behind the bottles lined up on the bar. Alf sniffed to himself – no mean feat with as near as damn it half a packet of slightly out of date dry roasted peanuts in his mouth, and of course Charlie knew Alf’s curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied on his account. He would open the letter later. To Charlie’s mind, Alf was far too nosey for a postman, and he made a mental note, though not for the first time, to keep a very careful eye on him. Wouldn’t be doing for his bills to be common knowledge, thought Charlie, and risked a quick glance at the letter now carefully nestled between the Gordon’s and Smirnoff bottles. It is worth pointing out at this point that although the bottles themselves were genuine, the contents most definitely were not.. Charlie subscribed to the view that although punters were prepared to pay a little bit extra for the known brands of certain types of spirits, it wasn’t actually in his remit to provide them. Hence both bottles were full of the cash and carry’s finest cheaper brands. If, on the rather remote chance that Charlie experienced a pang of remorse on the matter, his argument for the contrary would probably have involved something containing the words, “cheaper”, “no-marks” and “osmosis”. Luckily this process could not be applied to pickled eggs.
Alf finished his beer and made for the door. It looked as if Charlie was not going to oblige by opening the envelope, despite him casting shifty glances at it out of the corner of his eye, and with that thought Alf made his way back into the high street and the end of his shift.
Charlie waited for the door to swing shut, and then another ten seconds just to make sure Alf wasn’t about to (for once in his life) show a bit of intelligence and pop his head back around the corner pretending that he had forgotten something. Charlie eagerly scanned the envelope. The paper seemed pretty good. “Definitely a watermark going on there somewhere”, thought Charlie. The writing on it was definitely ink, the letters revealing a careful, flourished hand, the letters large and looped. Being the proverbial half-empty glass, Charlie studied the address. Yup. It was definitely for him. Turning the envelope over a few times he re-read the letters that carefully spelt his name, “Charles Horse Esquire, The Bucket and Shovel” and then the remainder of his address.
Charlie considered putting the letter down and getting on with refilling the pickled eggs but curiosity got the better of him, and he carefully opened the letter. The paper inside was of a similar, if not better, quality of paper than the envelope, and was in similar nearly identical writing to that on the envelope., and was headed with a large gold coloured logo pronouncing the letter was from “The Elite Guild of Rural Inns, Travelling and Ale Houses”. Charlie wasn’t sure what a travelling house was, but as it didn’t seem to involve piccalilli he continued to read the letter.
Dear Mr Horse,
As the esteemed owners of the Elite Guild of Rural Inns, Travelling and Ale Houses (Hereafter referred to as EGRITAH) we are pleased to inform you that The Bucket and Shovel – of whom you are the rightful custodian as recognised by the above society (EGRITAH) you have been selected to be assessed with a view to becoming a member of our elite society. To this end our fully qualified inspector shall call Monday next at ten am sharp to assess your property and business with the end in mind of adding - at no cost to yourself – your establishment to our elite charter of old fashioned establishments.
Yours……
Charlie scowled a little at the “rightful custodian” – which to him seemed a little bit fancy – but definitely brightened up at the “at no cost to yourself” section. In his mind – Hmm… Monday next. He considered a clean apron and possibly a dust behind the juke box… or perhaps an Elite Guild of Rural Inns, Travelling and Ale Houses would consider a layer of dust a mouse would have to wade through a genuine rural touch? Perhaps he could pass off the slightly aged dry roast peanuts as authentic hand crafted rural snacks? The possibilities hit Charlie like a slow tide edging its way towards a burnt tyre on a beach. The deciding factor however, was the thought of belonging to an Elite organisation – almost royalty, was that, and Charlie gave an extra wipe to the mild tap, just for luck.
Monday next came and Charlie ensconced himself at the smoking room window to view the arrival of the inspector. This of course, was Charlie’s favourite position, affording him a view not only of the area surrounding the pub but also the street running past it in both directions and therefore also up and down the hill. At the very least this would give Charlie the chance to appraise the inspector for a few seconds as he approached the pub. He was very big on judging people by appearance, was Charlie – and he relished the chance to have a look before the inspector arrived.
Which was odd. At precisely ten o’clock (Charlie’s watch was never wrong – and his obsession with getting the
time exactly right was bordering on OCD) there was a loud knock on the door. Three loud raps, one after another. From the window the only place Charlie could not see was the pub door, and yet he had not seen anyone approach the door at all. As he was pondering this there followed a further three loud raps, and Charlie scuttled across the lounge shouting, “Coming… hang on” and opened the door.
“Good Morning” pronounced the inspector in what was a decidedly deep voice. “An inspector has called.” he said and put the somewhat ornate cane he was obviously knocking on the door with back by his side, leaning on it lightly. Charlie was good at appearances. He could tell, for example, the sell by date on the back of a packet of crisps from the front of the bag, and not much got past him, as many of his ex-customers could clearly attest to.
“You need to invite me in” said the inspector, looking up at Charlie with a broad grin. Charlie was, however, very much in a state of shock. It wasn’t the deep resonant voice of the inspector or the fact that he clearly bashed his door with his cane at least six times (both clearly banning offences in Charlie’s statute book) but the fact that the inspector was – Charlie grasped for a politically correct phrase in a non-politically correct brain – and decided the inspector was.. well, at best oddly dressed . What looked very much like a sort of business suit over a pair of knee high black boots and a hat that was … sort of… well it had a feather in it anyway. Oh, and he was - at best – about four feet tall.
“Glitz is the name” said the diminutive inspector, and Charlie stood aside and invited the inspector in. Glitz stood in the entrance of the pub and surveyed the lounge, removing a small monocle from an unseen side pocket and peering about him.
“EGRITAH standard visit” pronounced Glitz, and spun on the spot, taking in the pub entrance in a complete 360 degree manner. “Any vampires, loose demons, headless horsemen or piccalilli about the place?” asked Glitz.
“Shouldn’t think so” mumbled Charlie, checking off the list in his mind. “Especially the piccalilli.” Charlie felt much more confident about the last part of this, his not having piccalilli being a definite sanctuary in a conversation that seemed to be swiftly in danger of running off the rails.
“Excellent” pronounced Glitz, removing his (decidedly green) jacket and feathered hat, passing them to Charlie to hang up. Charlie presumed this was what he wanted as Glitz pointed his cane at the coat stand and from somewhere out of an unseen pocket pulled a large clipboard and a pen. Squinting over the top of the clipboard - Charlie decided that not only was the inspector in possession of a rather large nose but also that his colouring was - perhaps it was the light bouncing off the bottle of (non) Gordon’s gin on the bar, or perhaps it wasn’t – a definite shade of green in colour.
Charlie hung up the very small, yet heavy coat and waited. Given time to gather his wits Charlie may very well have had something to say about this intrusion into his pub, but Glitz was not giving him time to think about much at all. Well, much that made sense, anyway.
“Shall we start with the cellar?” asked Glitz and Charlie meekly moved behind the bar and raised the trapdoor that was the only way to access the cellar from the inside of the pub. From behind him Charlie could hear Glitz tutting, and mumbled, almost to himself, “No runes, torch lit passages or adornments” followed by what could not be mistaken for anything else but another loud tut. Charlie secured the trapdoor just in time to turn and see Glitz making a large mark on the paper attached to the clipboard with such a flourish that it could not be anything else but a large cross. Presumably in red, thought Charlie and disappeared down into the cellar.
“I’ll get the light” shouted Charlie back to Glitz, but the small inspector was already at the base of the steps.
“No need for me” he pronounced in his deep voice and started to sniff loudly to himself. “Slight dampness, no sign of other worldly occupation or coffins. No hoard either, come to think of it.”
This was followed by another loud deep tut and what was without mistake another large red cross. “Shall we proceed?” said the inspector and Glitz disappeared back up the ladder. Charlie wearily ascended back to pub level and closed the trap door shut once more. This was most definitely not going the way that Charlie intended.
“Right” said Glitz, taking a table by the snug and settling his clipboard on the table. “Let us continue with a few general questions.” Charlie edged his way on to a stool nervously.
Glitz adjusted his monocle and took possession of the clipboard once more. Staring at Charlie he addressed what was presumably the list on his board. “Food?” he asked.
“Nope” pronounced Charlie proudly. “Just pickled eggs, savoury snacks… and dry roast peanuts of course.”
Glitz sniffed loudly and somewhat longer than usual. “Can you smell varnish?” he asked, sniffing again.
“No” replied Charlie, colouring slightly. “Probably the blocks in the toilet.”
“We’ll come to that” muttered Glitz and consulted his list once more. “Theme nights?”
“Definitely not.”
“Not even Beltane? “Enquired Glitz, cocking an eyebrow. On such a face this gave him the unfortunate effect of looking as if his entire top lip was going to slide off.
“Erm… still a no” replied Charlie , trying to remember whether Beltane were a male or female pop group. Either way he’d have none of that kind of nonsense in his pub!
“Provisions and vitals for the road?”
“No.”
“Stabling facilities – re-shoeing included?”
“Erm…no”
“Waxed candles and dark snugs for the hiding of rogues and smoking of a pipe?”
“No –we do have a smoking room though.”
Glitz huffed to himself in dismissal. “Indeed.” He added. “I can see it. Quite bright really, all things considered. What about heathen ales and stilled spirits made on the premises?”
Charlie paused, not really liking what he thought Glitz was alluding to.
“Do you mean cocktails?” he asked, finding his teeth clenching slightly in anticipation.
“Not at all” chuckled Glitz. “I was more thinking of wyverns and the like – but no matter.”
This was followed by yet another flourish, and no doubt another red cross. Charlie could feel his elite status falling away from him, and paused to do a mental of the number of his customers he had alluded to the Bucket and Shovel receiving a mysterious new award in the very near future.
The number was alarmingly high.
Glitz seemed to reach a conclusion, and placed his clipboard down on the table with a loud thump. Charlie knew it wasn’t good news.
“I’m sorry” he started, but looked anything but. “I’m afraid there must be some mistake Mister Horse. EGRITAH” (he pronounced it in capitals almost with relish) “ seem to have erred on this occasion. I can find no reason whatsoever for our society to include your establishment into our annals. I must apologise for wasting your time. Most unfortunate.”
“We have a race night every last Thursday in the month if that helps” said Charlie hopefully, but judging by the look on Glitz’s face it most certainly did not.
“I’m afraid that does not quite cut the mustard Mr Horse” he said and pointed with his cane at his coat and hat hanging on at the top of the coat stand like a set of stranded cot sheets. “I’ll be on my way.”
Charlie grabbed the coat and hat, and much to his surprise helped Glitz on with them.
“Good day, Mr Horse” pronounced Glitz and clicked his heels together. The clipboard vanished and was replaced with a large cigar. Glitz patted his coat as if searching for a match, tutted loudly, and noticing the lighter on the bar leaned across (rattling the chain on the end quite loudly) and lit his cigar with it.
Time stopped.
Charlie stared at the lit cigar. Glitz removed it from his mouth and stared at the lighter. Somewhere in the pub – impossibly far away, but probably in the attic – a pin dropped.
&nbs
p; Charlie tried speaking, but his mouth did not seem to be working. Glitz however grasped the lighter, examined it carefully and then reverently placed it back on the bar.
“Oh my.” He spluttered. “Mr Horse, this is a most extraordinary turn of events!”
Glitz seemed like a changed person. He almost ran to the door, the monocle popping out of his eye and dangling on its chain. Jumping up he pulled the door open, turned to Charlie and almost yelled, “We shall be in touch, Mr Horse – oh yes, indeed – we shall be in touch!” And the door slammed shut. There was about ten seconds of silence before the door edged open again and Glitz’s head edged around the gap. “Your dry roast nuts are off, by the way” he grimaced, and was gone. Charlie stared at the lighter, stared at the door, waited for the cleaners, and went to bed for three days.
Charlie soon regained his composure though he noticed that despite the strange turn of events the lighter was back to being able to be lit once more. He tried it sporadically at different times of the day, a combination of cigars and cigarettes, but to no avail. Some of his customers wondered (quietly amongst themselves, it must be said) at the slightly nervous tic Charlie seemed to have developed over the last week or so, but no explanation was forthcoming.
Time passed.
A number of weeks passed before Alf sidled in bearing a large envelope with curiously familiar handwriting on it – quality paper and all. Alf knew better than wait for Charlie to open it, but to his surprise, Charlie tore the letter out of his hand, quickly opened it and began to read. The smile on Charlie’s face spread like a rising moon – not at the large gold headed charter enclosed in the envelope (which would soon take pride of place behind the bar) but at the contents of the inspectors report. To the casual observer Charlie had just banned the entire cocktail swilling classes, or banned the word “family pub” from the English language.
Paul McCartney's Coat Page 9