by June Hopkins
Chapter 4
I glance around the car park to check James is actually here, and it's empty apart from James's ropey old Galaxy and the old Fiat which has coveted the same spot for the past four months. The owner's identity is sketchy at best, and James can't be arsed to get rid of the offending vehicle. Glancing past the car park I quickly scan the beer garden. It's empty, but someone has been busy with the lawn mower. I push open the door and enter the pub immediately taking in the sum total of four people, which is exactly as I expected at this time of day. The bar is gleaming; Phyllis the cleaner has obviously been at the Brasso this morning. The horse brasses hanging in various locations from fireplace to wooden beams are also shining brightly in the sunlight which is pouring in through the uncurtained windows. Blimey, Phyllis is obviously having her six monthly spring clean; the curtains and nets will reappear later starched and ironed and smelling divine.
The pub is your typical drinking man’s pub. It is small and consists of two bars named, imaginatively, back and front. The rooms are separated by the bar and a doorway; the back bar holds a pool table, fruit machines, large screen TV and dart-board and tends to be frequented by the younger crowd. The front bar has a huge log fire and a more lounge-like feel and an older clientele. The décor leaves a lot to be desired and the threadbare carpets are in dire need of replacing. The pub is tatty but James likes it this way and, strangely, so do the customers. They don't like change around here, it unsettles them. The two other pubs, well, one is a hotel, have both had expensive upgrades and make the Hart appear shabby in comparison to their bang up-to-date décor and city centre winebar feel.
I like the Hart; I much prefer the shabby homely feel of this place to the polished class of the other two. I never feel as if I have to behave in the Hart; pretty much anything goes. We have fun, we dance on the chairs and tables, sing on the karaoke and along to the live bands which James brings in every couple of weeks. We have lock-ins and even get the ash trays out after hours and drink and smoke inside, feeling like school kids, hiding behind the bike sheds. The customers who inhabit the Hart are all the down to earth sorts in the town; they are all locals. We rarely get strangers frequenting our local.
The four stalwarts in situ this morning are pretty much guaranteed to be in their allotted seats by 11.00 am each day, to the point that if one ever goes AWOL an investigation is mounted, leaving no stone unturned until their whereabouts is discovered.
Old Denny sits in the corner by the window, in an alcove created by the fire place. The television sits precariously above him high on a shelf.
Denny is 90 years young and blind as a bat, hence why he holds the seat under the TV, although his Braille is remarkable, especially when it comes to ascertaining the cup size of the barmaids. Denny smokes a pipe and likes to say "fuck" a lot, therefore if possible he is usually deposited in the smoking shelter for 1½ hours of his two hour daily visit. He bangs on the window with his stick for service and if you really get the short straw, this can involve escorting him to the gents and the joys of positioning him in front of the urinal and talking him through the basics of unzip, remove and point; not to mention urging him to shake dry and replace. A couple of my early experiences of this activity, which had involved wet shoes, taught me to be much more strategic in my own positioning, re: feet and lower legs. I now have this down to a fine art. However, I and the other female staff are not averse to a considerable amount of chest thrusting, manipulation and often blackmail of the male customers in order to avoid this task whenever possible.
You would be correct in assuming that this particular task would be outside of my job description, however sometimes needs must, especially as if left unchecked, Denny is not averse to leaving his outdoor seat and wandering precariously across the car park where he will merrily piddle in the flower beds. This activity is not really acceptable to other customers, not to mention the neighbours and those unfortunate members of the public passing the pub. Therefore, for James's sake, we do our best to ensure that Denny is policed. A barmaid's job is not just about flaunting our assets and pulling pints you know; you soon find that previous experience in primary school teaching, counselling, nursing and policing also come in handy.
Stan is perched on a stool at the end of the bar dressed in his usual uniform of black poly cotton tracksuit bottoms, big socks, black lace up shoes and patterned jumper. He drinks bitter for appearances sake, but we all know that when away from the pub he overindulges in his first love of strong cider. He smells of snuff and stale alcohol; he doesn't do a lot and spends his day drinking and watching crap 1940's and 1950's films on the pub TV.
Ralph, who comes in every morning at opening time and stays till two-ish, is one of the most irritating human beings I have ever met. So much so, that it is dependent on how irritating he is, whether or not I lose the customers to the pub across the road. The only bright side to this is that if that be the case, I can guarantee that when Ralph departs to said pub at 2pm, by 2.10pm-ish these customers return along with a couple of extras.
Then there is John. John also smokes a pipe and likes to say "fuck" a lot. He and Denny do not see eye to eye and bicker constantly. This bickering can turn quickly to violence if not kept in check. Denny has been known to take swipes at John with his stick and has managed to connect on a couple of occasions, therefore they have been separated and sit at either end of the bar. This only leads to vicious name calling and swearing, the like of which makes me blush at times and that isn't an easy feat. Still, it is never dull in the pub that's for sure.
"Morning Chaps, how you all doing today?" I ask breezily. It wouldn't do to let the customers know that anything is up or it'll be like the Spanish Inquisition once they smell blood.
"Annie is that you?" old Denny calls.
I sigh, "Yea Denny it's me. You ok?
"Come here Annie, I've got summat for ya," he informs me with a leer as the others snigger.
"What's that then Denny?"
"I got a kiss for ya, come ere."
The others snigger again knowing what's coming and I approach ready to do battle. Denny is holding his arms out to me; his yellow stained fingers reaching for my bust, his gurning face, lower lip pulled up over the upper, nose and forehead is screwed up but I'm ready for him. I go in quickly, grab his arms by the wrist and hold them down and plant a quick peck on his cheek, careful to avoid the egg stains. The others laugh out loud as I retreat and Denny mutters something along the lines of "Ahhh fucking tease," but I wouldn't swear to it and decide I don't really want to know so I don't pursue it.
"Like yer style Annie." Stan laughs at me as I move past him behind the bar.
"Cheers Stan, where's James?"
"Upstairs panicking about summat or other, I'm watching the bar."
"Ok I'll see you in a bit." I go through the door in the bar and head upstairs to the flat. "James, you up here?" I call.
"Annie?"
"Hi, I was hoping for a chat if you've got time and maybe some strong liquor." I tell him as I wander into the lounge.
"Oh Annie, am I glad to see you." James drops the phone he had been holding and flies towards me as I enter. His fair hair is all over the place, I suspect from running his fingers through it, which he always does when he's stressed.
"Blimey, what's up with you?" I ask.
"Can you watch the pub for me this afternoon please babe; I'm in a right 2-and-8?"
My face falls. Bugger, just what I needed. I watch my drunken afternoon fly out the window.
"Oh what? Why? Where's Helen? She's covering me today."
"Not anymore; she rang in sick this morning and I've got to go to cash and carry, the bank and I need some food up here before I start chewing my own arms off. Please Annie, I tried everyone else first, honest, but no dice. I was just phoning you then to beg."
I sigh loudly, making my displeasure apparent but I can't drop him in it especially as it's my normal shift and so I say yes. I'll bloody kill Helen for this, the bitch. I bet sh
e went out last night and got pole-axed like me but she'd promised she would cover so that I could go out, given that it doesn't happen that often. The only reason James keeps her is because when she does work she's a great barmaid and they are not easy to come by.
James grabs my face between his palms and gives me a kiss on my nose, "You are a little darling. What are you?”
"Yea, yea. A little darling, I know. A pushover more like." I tell him sulkily.
"Oh and just in case you think I'm being an incredibly bad mate, I did hear what you said and as soon as I get back we'll have a few. I'm not working tonight and you can tell me everything, ok? I'll even buy you chips, how's that?"
"You're on." I say a little happier. "Go on then; sooner you get there the sooner you're back."
"You ok?" he asks peering at my face; his crinkly blue eyes show their concern.
I grin at him, "I'm alright. Just need a sensible ear, that's all. Now get going, I'll see you later."
I leave him to it and take my place behind the bar. Two hours later I'd just about got to the end of my tether listening to Denny and John arguing, and was glad to see the back of them when they eventually buggered off. Another of the regulars had been in and then left, taking a couple of the customers with him after getting a phone call to say a roadkill deer had been spotted round the lanes. I kid you not; Pat even has his own set of slaughter knives in a brief case. Nasty looking things; I call him Dr Crippen. They will hightail it off to the scene of the crime, retrieve the corpse, transfer it to Jimmy's bath where they chop it up into choice cuts and then distribute to any interested parties. Sooo gross!
I then have a battle on my hands when they return, as they'll try to con me into letting them put their stash in the cellar where it's cold, while they spend their time getting pie-eyed in celebration of their haul. You may think this a reasonable request given their good custom, but they never wrap it properly and it bleeds all over the floor which is disgusting. Well not today they're not; I'm so not in the mood!
The door opens and four local builders traipse in tracking sand and cement in their wake from their filthy work boots. "Oi you lot, get outside and bang those boots off, or you're not getting a drink!" I holler at them.
"Ahh come on Annie we're gagging; it's boiling out there."
"Tough! Out and clean them!" I point at the door purposefully and speak in my no nonsense tone of voice. "Go on, I'll pour them while you're gone."
They mutter and tut a lot but do as they're told; they know better than to mess with me.
I pour the lagers and put the juke box on while they're outside and they gulp them down gratefully when they get back.
It's 4pm and the pub slowly starts to fill up. We get all sorts in on Friday afternoons, including mums and their kids. The mums love the fact that the kids can play freely in the garden or on the pool table while they get to have a drink and a gossip. The blokes don't go a bundle as it means they can't get out of going home when their nearest and dearest depart. It puts paid to the multitude of crap excuses they use to sneak in an extra couple of hours at the pub.
I love working Fridays, but by the time James eventually gets back and joins me and Jane, another barmaid takes over a couple of hours later, I'm dying to spill the beans.
We order pints and carry them out to the garden where the evening sun is still hot. We choose a table away from others and get stuck in to our much needed drinks.
Chapter 5
As I come to, something doesn't feel quite right, apart from the building work going on in my head. There is another soft rumbling noise coming from my left. The bedding feels unfamiliar which is odd.
I open one eye slowly and blink. Christ this is becoming a habit. I open the other and stay very still as I move my eyeballs slowly from side to side taking in my surroundings. I am not in my own bedroom, that much is clear. I stiffen and basically stop breathing as the soft rumble beside me becomes a full on snore. This is accompanied by a hairy arm which rears up from the bed and lands heavily across my stomach.
Fuck! Fuck! What the fuck is going on?
I move my head slowly to the left, but even as I do it becomes increasingly clear to me somewhere in the dark fuzzy depths of my brain that I will find James. I am wide awake now and focusing on James's fair head which is snuggled contentedly into the pillow beside me; he looks flushed and quite cute in his slumber. Shit. Taking a deep breath I feel myself beneath the covers. Fuck, naked. I move my legs and the definite warm, sticky feeling in the nether regions leaves me in no doubt as to the nature of my being there. Jesus, what the hell have I done? Well that's obvious; I've only gone and slept with my best mate and boss. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
I have to get out of here immediately! Snaking out of the bed and letting myself slowly down onto the floor as silently as possible, I manage to get on all fours and go in search of my clothes. There is a crack of light coming through the curtains, just enough to help me track down the errant items which are strewn across the room. My bra is even draped over the bedside lampshade. What the fuck is all that about? I now have everything, apart from my knickers and I am panicking. Not because I want to leave no trace and therefore have a flicker of hope that James will think it was all a dream, as appealing as that scenario is, but because they are awful knickers. I mean awful; everything that could be bad in a pair of knickers in fact. I have to find them; you couldn't normally miss them to be fair. They're pink: not a pretty pink you understand, but a dull washed out pink. They are huge belly hugging pants; not hold it all in hugging, but stretched and comfy hugging.
I am frantic now and my knees are starting to rub on the carpet. Bloody, bugger, fuck, fuck, where are they? James goes quiet and I freeze, right there on all fours, naked, at the bottom of the bed. I consider shimmying under it; however, shimmying conjures up visions of a little wisp of a thing, fairies etc, moving stealthily and silently. I am not a little wisp of a thing. Also I have a strong suspicion that if I tried I would get stuck and be left with my ass hanging out, like the back end of a cow in the milking shed. So I stay frozen where I am, the bed shakes as James moves around and I pray to every God I can think of that he is not getting up. The bed shudders as he obviously flops back into whatever position he has chosen and the snoring begins again in earnest.
I risk straightening up a little to peer over the edge of the bed and there they are, the offending or should I say offensive, knickers screwed up in James's hand, and he is softly rubbing the material against his cheek. I boggle, as well I might. This is turning into some sort of Norman Wisdom film. Yes, and I end up watching Stan's films when it's quiet. As quietly as possible I squirm into my jeans by sitting on the floor and then moving into the lying down position; not to do the zip up without breathing out (I've grown out of that fiasco and now buy jeans that fit correctly) but to avoid standing. I crawl round to James's side of the bed (James's side of the bed?) I mean the side he is currently asleep on and retrieve my bra from the bedside lamp noticing its 6.30am on the alarm clock. After fighting with my bra, with the sort of movements a contortionist would be proud of, I pull on my t-shirt and risk sticking my head above the parapet once more. My face is very close to his and more importantly my knickers. With the skill of a mother I carefully disentangle them from his fist and then crawl towards the bedroom door, praying again that my shoes which are nowhere to be found are somewhere on the other side. I have my shoes, found them on the stairs; and I've stolen one of James's hoodies off the coat hook in a vain attempt at remaining incognito on the ten minute walk home. I shouldn't have a problem at 6.45am on a Saturday morning, you'd think!
Now, sitting at my kitchen table, shaking from the adrenalin that must be positively surging through my veins and clutching a mug of tea, I am stunned that I have just run into two neighbours, three pub regulars and been forced to acknowledge two mothers from the school who beeped at me whilst driving past. What the fuck are they doing up and out at 6.45am on a fucking Saturday morning? Don't these people sleep? At
one point I even broke into a jog in an effort to make them think that I was following some weird exercise routine.
I'd felt that if questioned about my unusual jogging attire of jeans and high heels (well three inches) I may have got away with making up some bogus exercise routine which could, perhaps, have been advertised on, say, GMTV endorsed by Dr Hilary himself. The jeans-and-heels fad sweeping, I don't know, Switzerland; the hoodie-and-jeans to encourage you to sweat more, I would enlighten them, and a slight heel helps to strengthen your hamstring or calf muscle or knees or something. Well you never know, it could take off and I could make millions. I believe I could have pulled this off as well if a) I could actually jog for any length of time, and by time I mean longer than, say, 30 seconds; and b) if Ralph hadn't been talking to Jimmy outside the newsagent and hadn't spotted my knickers fall out of my pocket and land pretty much on his shoe as I puffed past. As I have already pointed out Ralph is one of the most irritating people I know and therefore it should come as no surprise to hear that he picked them up, shook them out and then shouted rather loudly after me, "Hey, Annie you dropped yer knickers."
I pulled up short and turned around to see Ralph waving my massive faded pink knickers high in the air at me just as Angela Carter, the most stuck-up and nosiest woman in the town, drove slowly past in the car with her window down. She promptly swerved to avoid the kerb as she gawped at Ralph and then at me and my purple face.
I walked back to Ralph and snatched them from his grasp, "Thanks, Ralph," I hissed with feeling. I glared at Jimmy who was close to wetting himself with laughter, and stomped the rest of the way home. The knickers are now in the bottom of the bin.