by Ted Tayler
“In the dark, it’s hard to see crows,” said Rosie. “I nearly always get lost, but somehow every lane or track ends up at this pub.”
“Our ancestors got a few things right,” said Dave Vickers. “They knew the priorities.”
“Where do you live, Rosie, if you don’t mind me asking?” asked Oscar Wallington.
“Stratford-sub-Castle,” Rosie replied. “It used to be a separate village to the north of the city, but it’s part of Salisbury these days.”
“You live in a cottage next to your old farm, don’t you, Jim?” asked Oscar. “Is that far from here?”
“Between here and Chitterne,” said Jim. “I passed Dave in Tilshead cycling from Shrewton on my way here.”
“I can’t imagine you cycling here, Mr Wallington,” said Rosie, moving back behind the bar to stand beside Alf Collett.
“No, I’ve got my trusty old Land Rover Defender outside,” said Oscar. “It won’t be long before I can take her on the London to Brighton Rally, but she gets the job done. My journey here is around the same as yours, Rosie. Twenty minutes, give or take. My employer’s Lodge House lies on the other side of the village of Chitterne.”
“It’s a sign of the times,” said Alf Collett. “The only way a country pub can survive is for people like yourselves to drive from the nearest town or village. Jim here always has two pints and drives home, praying the police aren’t waiting for him up at the crossroads. Dave doesn’t drive, but you can still be drunk in charge of a bicycle. Many’s the night when I’ve locked up as Dave cycles along the road hitting the grass verge on either side.”
“I fell into the hedge one night,” said Dave. “A Christmas Eve, I think it was. I was laughing so much I couldn’t get up for several minutes.”
“Just as well you were wearing a helmet,” said Rosie.
“What about you, Oscar?” asked Alf. “Will you want another double scotch?”
Oscar Wallington tapped his nose.
“When you’ve spent a lifetime learning how to evade the enemy, you work out how to get back to base with no one seeing you.”
Jim Thornton rapped his hand on the bar top.
“You crafty beggar,” he said. “The Defender comes in handy for that purpose, no doubt.”
“She’s a four-wheel drive,” said Oscar, “and there are a dozen fields between the Traveller’s Rest and the Lodge owned by the estate. I can manoeuvre my way back to my billet, avoiding any of the places the police might patrol if I’ve over-indulged.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a patrol car out this way,” said Rosie, “not since I’ve worked here.”
“My predecessor was fond of a lock-in,” said Alf. “Before you ask, Joan would have my hide if I started that game. It has to be ten years, at least since a patrol car idled past the Traveller’s Rest looking for someone to nick. As for my licences, they send a young PC during daylight hours to check them.”
“Just the one?” asked Dave. “I thought they went nowhere without a colleague.”
“The Plain will be unfamiliar territory to many of the youngsters they have working for the police nowadays,” said Jim. “I dare them to visit certain parts in the dark, alone, without wondering if ghosts and ghouls hide behind every tree and shrub. I know the area well, and long ago, people rarely strayed more than a few miles from the house in which they were born. Sixty years ago, as a young man, I can remember villages within a few miles of this pub populated by only five families.”
“Inbreeding going on,” muttered Oscar.
“Maybe there was,” said Jim. “Perhaps they knew no different. If I developed a thirst after searching for a lost ewe, I might wet my whistle in one of dozens of pubs near here that have long since disappeared. When I walked into a bar, everyone’s eyes turned towards me. The temperature dropped a few degrees, and conversation died until I had drunk my beer and left. There were rumours of pagan worship in those remote villages and hamlets. I can’t swear to any truth behind those rumours, but forget what you believe about the world being a small place. Put yourself in the middle of the Plain, with civilisation miles away. What if a combination of the weather, geography, or circumstances cut you off from the nearest big town? Even the plague if you went back far enough. Who knows what demons might have survived in such a wilderness, real or imaginary?”
“You’re a bundle of laughs tonight, Jim,” said Alf. “Is it because it’s Friday the thirteenth? Do you think something wicked lies in wait outside that front door?”
“I wish I had someone to come home with me later tonight,” said Rose. “I’ll lock my car doors and turn the stereo up full blast on the way home.”
Jim Thornton turned his attention to his pint of bitter. Most of what he just said was a myth, but people underestimated the dangers of the Plain at their peril.
Dave Vickers stared into the glowing embers of the fire and wondered if he could afford driving lessons in the spring. He decided it required a fresh pint while he considered. The large clock behind the bar ticked on as the handful of staff and customers sat quietly with their thoughts.
Oscar Wallington ordered another double whisky as the clock ticked around to half-past nine. “The last one for me for tonight,” he said.
“I don’t think Dave and Jim will be far behind you, Oscar,” said Alf. “Jim’s hung onto that empty glass for long enough.”
As Alf slipped a twenty-pound note into the till and sorted Oscar’s change, he heard the creaking door. With a sigh, he placed the change on the bar and looked to see his new customer.
“That’s all we need,” he groaned as he recognised Kendal Guthrie.
The Guthrie family claimed to have farmed on the Plain for centuries. Nobody was too sure when they first moved south from Angus in Scotland, but they lost any trace of an accent several generations back.
Kendal Guthrie was a larger-than-life character and universally disliked.
At sixty-seven, he was a widower; his wife, Poppy, died eighteen months earlier from a heart attack. The couple had two children. Wesley, who was married with two sons, lived and worked on one of the five farms currently owned by his wealthy father.
Wesley, at thirty-eight, was two years older than his sister, Helen. She married young at eighteen to Guy Stilwell, a structural engineer, and they emigrated to Melbourne, Australia, four years later. Helen and Guy had no children. The only time Wesley had seen his sister in the past fourteen years was when she flew back, alone, for their mother’s funeral.
Alf Collett patiently waited while Guthrie removed his camelhair coat and looked for an appropriate place to hang it.
“I suppose it’s too much to ask that a pub in the back of beyond might possess a coat hanger. This coat cost me twelve hundred quid.”
“The wind and rain outside can’t tell the difference between it and an old parka,” said Alf. “There are several spare pegs on the rack by the door. Take your pick. What can I get you to drink?”
“A gin and tonic. Slimline, no ice, with a twist of lemon. Get the girl to put it together if it’s too complicated for you.”
Kendal Guthrie strolled to the bar and made a great show of removing his wallet from his inside jacket pocket. Dave Vickers admired the cut of the dark blue suit Guthrie wore. The building society manager reckoned it would cost him at least a month’s wages.
Guthrie watched Alf cutting the first and only slice of lemon of the evening. Then he turned to study the person sat nearest to him at the bar.
“Who do we have here?” he sneered. “A squaddie masquerading as a gentleman farmer. You’re a long way from home, Wallington. That Defender of yours outside looks to be on its last legs. Go easy on the whisky. You can’t afford to scratch my Bentley Continental GT if you leave here before me tonight.”
“My Defender will get me home whatever the weather, Guthrie,” said Oscar. “I served my Queen and country for over thirty years, and for the last thirteen of those, I was a Warrant Officer Class One. That’s as far as you can ge
t from a raw recruit without a commission. As far as I can tell, the only person you’ve ever served is yourself.”
“Ooh, touched a nerve there, did I? If you fancied a better motor, General, why not do what the estate manager before you did? No wonder the place was losing money. He embezzled over a quarter of a million, or so I heard. A mere twenty grand would be enough for a car that suited a man of your calibre.”
Guthrie laughed out loud. Nobody else in the room joined him. Alf knew it wouldn’t phase the farmer. It was water off a duck’s back. Guthrie relished the fact people hated him. He thought it was because they were jealous of his wealth.
Alf placed the gin and tonic on the bar counter in front of Guthrie and turned away.
“How much do I owe you?” asked Guthrie shifting a wad of banknotes partly from the wallet.
“Four pounds, fifty, Mr Guthrie,” said Rosie.
“Ah, the vision of loveliness speaks as well,” said Guthrie. “I can see you’ve not been busy tonight, sweetheart. Can you change a fifty-pound note?”
Guthrie laughed once more when he saw Rosie’s head snap around to seek help from Alf.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” said Guthrie. “I’ve got several of each denomination—even a measly fiver. Put the change in the charity box for the Guide Dogs for the Blind. Keep an eye on this one, Alf. She might have sticky fingers like the last girl you had behind the bar. Or was that just a vicious rumour about you and Imogen?”
That set Kendal Guthrie off again. He thought he was highly amusing.
“Well, you can’t stop people talking,” said Guthrie. “They tell me Joan hasn’t come downstairs to work alongside you since Imogen left. You know what they say. No smoke without fire.”
“Alf’s not like that,” said Rosie. “He’s been the perfect gentleman ever since I started.”
“Imogen did short-change customers,” said Dave Vickers. “She couldn’t get away with it with us regulars because we’re too familiar with the prices. Alf reckoned Imogen was lucky if she got two pounds a night. It was hardly the Great Train Robbery.”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Vickers? Our jovial building society manager offers interest rates at half of one per cent. Who does that help? It means people who don’t have the first idea about money can borrow it far too easily, while those of us who have worked hard for it get next to nothing for investing several million in your branch.”
“I don’t set the rates, Guthrie,” said Dave. “Blame the Bank of England.”
“Funny that, isn’t it, General? Dave’s quick to pass the responsibility on to someone further up the chain. You must have encountered that when you were a serving soldier. Same story, but the other way around. The grunts in the trenches carry the can when something goes wrong in the heat of battle.”
Jim Thornton released his grip on his pint glass, stepped away from the bar stool, and lifted his coat from the back of a nearby chair.
“I’ll be on my way,” he said.
“If the Devil were to cast his net in here tonight, he’d be disappointed,” said Guthrie. “All shrimps and no Atlantic bluefin tuna. Jim Thornton, as I live and breathe. What a life, eh Jim? You toiled away for fifty years for Bob Ellison’s father, and did you get a gold watch on the day you retired? Did you heck. Now you’re spending your last days praying that poor wife of yours goes first. Does she realise the truth, Jim? Bob told me his old man promised he wouldn’t turn you out of your tied cottage until you died. Now Bob has had enough of scraping a living as a sheep farmer and wants to sell the lot, lock, stock, and tied cottages. Fred Ellison was an honourable man; he gave you his word. Nothing in writing though, Jim, was there?”
“Bob won’t go back on his father’s promise,” said Jim. “Not everyone is as devious as you, Guthrie.”
“You might have a problem, though, Jim. What do you know of Lower Everleigh? Or farms out at Enford, Ablington, Durrington, and Collingbourne Ducis? Of course, you wouldn’t have your finger on the pulse. They’re on the latest list from the MoD. Five farms released for sale to tenant farmers. Little by little, as the General here will confirm, our army is decreasing in size. They don’t need the land they amassed before the Second World War. You’ve got to be quick when you hear a whisper of a release such as that. There’s money to be made. I’ve got my name down for the ones that are the best fit with my portfolio. I won’t secure every one of them, but that doesn’t matter. Anyway, now I’ve heard that Bob Ellison’s farm is up for grabs, that’s one I want, and you know why.”
“You own the farms on either side,” said Oscar Wallington.
“Give the General a cigar,” said Guthrie.
“You wouldn’t turn an old couple out of the home they’ve lived in for half a century,” said Dave Vickers.
“That’s cruel and vindictive,” said Rosie.
“No. That’s business, sweetheart,” said Guthrie.
“I’m not your sweetheart,” yelled Rosie.
“Don’t fret, petal. You’re too skinny for my taste. That Imogen was a fine looking woman, but Alf would know better than me whether her performance compensated for the couple of hundred pounds she stole from him.”
“That’s enough, Guthrie,” said Alf Collett. “I’m calling time. Ten minutes, and everyone needs to get out. Don’t come back, Guthrie. You’re barred.”
“Hah, they have barred me from better pubs than this dump. If I want a place to have a drink, perhaps I’ll turn Jim’s cottage into a roadside tavern for a couple of years. It will take time to get planning permission for residential development for the rest of the land.”
“Nigh on impossible,” said Oscar.
“You’ve been out of the army for a while, General,” said Guthrie. “Surely, you know when troops and their families return from the defunct German bases, they will need somewhere to live? Larkhall, Bulford, and Tilshead are right on my doorstep.”
Kendal Guthrie waved his wallet in the air as he strolled to collect his coat.
“Money talks.”
He was still laughing as Alf heard the front door creak shut behind him.
“He’s serious, isn’t he, Mr Thornton?” said Rosie.
“I haven’t heard a thing from Bob Ellison,” said Jim. “I know plenty of farmers, not just on the Plain, have struggled these past few years. Several have got out altogether; the others diversified to survive. Bob’s heart was never in it, anyway. Fred struggled to convince him to take over after he retired. While Fred was alive, there was no chance Bob would sell up, but it’s been several years since Fred passed. Who knows? Guthrie has had his eyes on that farm for years.”
“When did you retire, Jim?” asked Dave Vickers.
“Five years ago, when I reached sixty-five. I was happy to work on, but Bob reckoned I’d done enough to deserve a rest.”
“Fred Ellison was older than you, wasn’t he?” asked Alf.
“Ten years, maybe,” said Jim. “He died two years before I stopped work. So that’s seven years ago.”
“When did Fred talk with you about the tenancy?” asked Dave.
“He called into the cottage and discussed it with the wife and me, not long after he handed the farm over to his son. He said we deserved to have a roof over our head for as long as we needed it after staying with him throughout my working life. Fred carried on working until he was seventy. That would have suited me, but Bob put a stop to that. Why, what does it matter?”
“The laws have changed relating to agricultural tenancies over the years,” said Dave. “I would get in touch with a solicitor to find out where you stand.”
“I can’t afford a solicitor,” said Jim. “Fred gave me his word. That’s good enough for me, and it should be good enough for Bob, too. Guthrie likes to stir the pot every chance he gets. One day, he’ll go too far, and someone will put an end to it.”
Jim wrapped his scarf around his neck and stood waiting until the others were ready to leave. He didn’t want to be outside alone with Kenda
l Guthrie. He’d heard enough from him for one night.
Dave Vickers brought his empty glass to the bar and handed it to Rosie.
“I don’t think you’re too skinny, Rosie,” he said. “Kendal Guthrie’s an ignorant pig.”
Rosie giggled and collected the handful of empty glasses.
“Take care cycling home, Mr Vickers,” she said. “I don’t want to see you in the hedge when I drive past. I’ll be singing at the top of my voice to scare away the bogeyman.”
Oscar Wallington was ready to leave, and he went to join Jim by the door.
“We both copped flak from Guthrie tonight,” he said. “You’re right. It’s high time Guthrie got his just deserts.”
Dave Vickers didn’t pass comment. He knew he needed to pay a visit before tackling the bike ride home to Shrewton. As Dave headed for the Gents, he noticed Rosie slipping into the Ladies next door. Two minutes later, Dave made his way outside and groaned when he saw the weather had worsened.
Alf Collett waited until the bar was clear of customers and then locked the front door. They hadn’t taken enough money to make it worth opening, and Kendal Guthrie had soured what little joy the evening had brought. Alf joined Rosie behind the bar and picked up a cloth to dry the glasses she had finished washing.
“I’ll finish these if you want to get off home, Rosie,” said Alf.
“We’re nearly done. Why do you think Mr Guthrie is so horrible to everyone? Did you see that wallet of his? He had hundreds of pounds in it, and the watch he wore was a Rolex. Who needs three gold rings on each hand, anyway? It’s asking for trouble.”
“He’ll get what’s coming to him,” said Alf. “If what Guthrie said to Jim is right, this place could have competition just up the road, which will finish me. Now I’ve barred him; he’s the sort of bloke who would open a pub out of spite, whether or not it made him money. He’s a swine, through and through.”
Rosie shivered.
“I didn’t like the way he looked at me,” she said. “He gave me the creeps.”