by Rod Glenn
A short distance away, Main Street parted around a well-groomed green with a park bench and, holding centre stage, a mighty oak which, with sunshine, would easily overshadow most of what was clearly the nucleus of the village. A Co-op mini market, Post Office, Merlin’s Mea s (the ‘t’ was missing from the sign), Little Bakery, Duck & Bucket Tavern, Jolly Moe’s Barber Shop and, finally, the Miller’s Arms Inn were all huddled around the dark, deserted Green.
All the premises were stone built, but each as individual as a human thumbprint. The Co-op, a squat stretched building; the Post Office, austere like a bank (it was amazing to see a small village with its own post office in this day and age); the butchers, shabby with a tired awning; Little Bakery, a picture of quaint England; the Duck, small but adorned with six overflowing hanging flower baskets in full blossom; Moe’s, flamboyant ruby red woodwork and an old-fashioned red and white revolving pole, and the Miller’s, an old coaching inn affair, solid and dependable.
Main Street rejoined itself and continued on to a car park and a disused train station. Two roads forked off Main Street; Bell Lane and, as he pulled up to the Miller’s, he noticed the second was called Miller’s Road (inspired). Main Street was wider at the old coaching inn, so there were three parking bays outside, one of which was unoccupied.
After parking, he jumped out with renewed energy, despite the long and tedious drive. His earlier ill-ease long gone. An old man, in a grubby overcoat that aspired to be as wrinkled as its owner, shambled past him into the pub.
“Evening,” Han called after him with a cheery wave. The door slammed shut without acknowledgement. “Mean old bastard.”
He followed the old codger to the entrance, but paused with his hand pressed against the tarnished brass welcome plate stuck to the centre of the wide oak door. Taking a moment to glance up and down the street, he muttered, “Perfectamundo,” and then pushed the door inwards.
MOB, maybe Moby to his friends, was sagging at the cherrywood bar, adorned with half a dozen real ale pumps, along with a few lagers and beers that Han hadn’t seen for years. The one you’ve gotta come back for. With rickety old washing machine shakes, he was awkwardly paying for a bottle of Guinness Extra Stout with a fist full of small change. None of your trendy continental beers here, just the old faithful.
An old vinyl-playing jukebox that looked like a throwback from the 60s was playing a Jim Reeves classic. Welcome to my world … won’t you come on in … Apt.
As Han was taking this in, he gradually noticed that Moby and the burst-couch-chested barman, with a scowl and a silvery crew-cut were staring at him. No smiles, no curiosity, just cold hard stares.
Han offered them a smile. They turned back and continued with their transaction.
Now forcing the smile, he strolled over to the bar. Covering most of the walls was a wide assortment of military memorabilia; black and white photographs from various conflicts, maps, coats of arms, regimental flags, the cross of St. Andrew Flag (the National Flag of Scotland), a musket, a couple of helmets (one he recognised as British circa World War II), a flak jacket, bayonets, a rather lethal looking combat knife, and dozens of medals and ribbons hanging in a presentation case. In amongst the military memorabilia there were also dozens of vintage postcards depicting a multitude of saucy Benny Hill-esq encounters.
“Quite a collection, aye laddie?” the barman said with a deep, but unexpectedly friendly voice.
Assuming the barman meant his military collection and not his dirty postcards, Han said, “Damn straight. I’m guessing it’ll be a safe bet that you used to be in the army.”
The barman smiled. “Aye, yer got that right. Forty-two years in the Scots Guards; retired a couple of years ago. Served through one or two disagreements.”
Han waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn’t Han ordered a drink.
While the landlord poured him a pint of lager, Han continued the conversation. “Forty-two years, eh? Jesus. What rank?”
“Sergeant Major,” he said, with obvious pride as he set the drink down. “I’m Joe Falkirk, the landlord of this humble drinkin’ establishment. And my merry pal there’s Tam Wellright.”
As Han opened his mouth to respond, Moby/Tam spoke without taking his eyes off his pint. “I’m eighty-four and still grow me own veggies. Dig for victory … dig for victory …”
“You don’t say?” Turning back to the landlord, he caught Joe rolling his eyes and laughed. “Nice to meet the both of you. I’m Hannibal Whitman; we spoke on the phone.”
“Aye, of course – we’ve been expecting yer.” He smiled and it was like the parting of the red sea. “Martha – the better half – has got yer room all ready for yer.”
First night.
The room that would be his home over the coming months turned out to be spacious and bright, with a double bed, en suite bath and toilet. The furniture and furnishings appeared to have not been renewed for decades – pastel pink bathroom suite, highly polished teak desk and wardrobe and a floral high-backed armchair.
The curtains, carpet, cushions and bedding were a kaleidoscope of patterns and colours, but every surface was meticulously clean and a faint aroma of jasmine from a bowl of potpourri on the windowsill scented the air. Han was amused, but overall, pleasantly surprised.
After semi-unpacking – well, unzipping one of the cases and having a half-hearted rummage – he headed back downstairs to take Joe up on a courtesy bar meal to celebrate his first night as their guest.
Martha turned out to be a plump, grinning woman with a frizz of grey hair and energy to spare. Although a little overbearing – fussing over him like a long lost son returning from war – and the permanent grin that at times appeared to be glued in place, her toad-in-the-hole turned out to be first class.
The pub had filled up in his absence and ‘Big’ Joe – as the regulars seemed to call him – had been joined by a short, skinny girl with spiky black hair and tattoos called Lisa. She was perhaps seven stone dripping wet, but she commanded respect from everyone in the bar, including a group of three boisterous lads of the young, dumb and full of cum variety. Han noticed her eyes linger in his direction more than once. Maybe it was just that he was a new face, but you never know. He pretended not to notice and smiled inwardly. She cannae take yer charm, Captain …
He ordered a whiskey and made himself comfortable at the bar beside a slim redheaded woman in her early thirties. He nodded a greeting to her and was unable to help himself from eying the curves of her generous (cosmetically enhanced) breasts. Her slender hands were both wrapped around the stem of a glass of chardonnay, and Han noticed immediately, to his initial disappointment, a platinum wedding band.
“Janet, have yer met our new resident writer, Mister Whitman?” Big Joe’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Nice to meet you, Mister Whitman,” she said, offering him a hand and a glimpse at a perfect set of porcelain veneers.
“Han, please.” He took her hand and returned the smile.
“Hannibal, hmm? Sounds like cannibal. I hope you don’t bite.” Her voice was – an old Heartbreak Ridge quote sprung to mind – as smooth as a prom queen’s thighs …
They laughed as Big Joe said, “Watch out for this one, laddie. She’s like one o’them femme fatales from a Sam Spade novel. She also happens to be married to the only quack in the area.”
“I take offence at that,” Janet replied, smiling playfully.
“What, being married to Larry or being a femme fatale?”
“Don’t you come running to my Larry when your haemorrhoid problems flare-up again.”
Han observed the friendly banter with detached amusement as the door opened to admit a tall, tanned man in his thirties. He strode up to the bar with the confidence of a cock in a henhouse. Boot-cut jeans and fitted sweater, dark tussled hair and designer stubble, carefully maintained to look like it wasn’t maintained at all. He was a postcard for the pseudo-stylish and wannabe-famous. In his youth, probably captain of the football team
too. Han disliked him instantly.
“A’right, Steve?” Big Joe said. “Usual?”
“Aye, BJ. Hi, Janet, fancy meeting you here.” He smiled and there was something rather predatory about it.
“Steve,” she replied a little sternly. “We have a new resident. This is Hannibal Whitman; he’s a writer.”
There was a brief flicker of annoyance in his face, but then it was replaced with a pretty good attempt at a sincere ‘damn glad to meet ya’ face. “Hey, Han. Steve Belmont of Belmont Motors; good to meet you.”
“Likewise.” They shook hands and his powerful grip said one thing; this is MY henhouse. Han kept his grip casual, not wanting to damage the man’s fragile ego. Bless him.
Steve angled himself between Han and the femme fatale, and started a conversation, so Han took the hint and went back to nursing his whiskey. He was quickly rewarded with the skinny bum belonging to Lisa bent over in his general direction as she stooped to pick up a bottle of Babycham from a lower shelf. The movement briefly revealed a Rolling Stones red lips logo tattooed on the small of her back and a healthy portion of black thong.
“Ah, shite,” Big Joe muttered under his breath, drawing Han’s attention to the door.
A blonde had walked in. There was a hint of a previously very pretty woman, but now her face was puffy with blotchy skin, and dark bruised circles around bloodshot eyes. Her cheap jeans and blouse were creased, but precisely in reverse from the mighty Charioteer, Chris, she actually managed to make them look better on.
Steve and Janet both turned to look at the new arrival. Steve turned away quickly in disgust, but Janet’s eyes lingered a moment longer.
“I dunna want nae trouble, Carol,” Big Joe said, with a sincere mix of warning and compassion.
Hovering in the doorway, a picture of nerves, she took the hesitation as an opportunity to light up a cigarette with a trembling hand. After a couple of deep draws, the nicotine seemed to calm her and boost her confidence. “Campari and soda, Joe,” she said with a passable attempt at nonchalance, thrusting the disposable lighter and crumpled pack back into her bag.
Big Joe relaxed and did as she asked.
She moved hesitantly to the bar and stood by Han. He did not feel overly happy at suddenly being thrust into a Checkpoint Charlie role between the obviously warring factions.
Nobody seemed to comment on her smoking, which was quite a surprise to Han. They must be a little more flexible with the smoking laws out in the sticks.
Taking another shaky draw on her cigarette, she turned to Han and offered a somewhat embarrassed nicotine-stained smile. “Hi, hun. What’s your name?” There was the faintest tick just above her left eyebrow and her bloodshot eyes had a thousand-yard stare quality about them.
With the resignation that comes from knowing that a chain of events were now impossible to prevent, he replied in his friendliest, yet most non-committal voice possible. “Han Whitman. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Carol Belmont; ex-wife of that adulterous bastard there.”
“Ah, Christ.” Scarcely above a whisper from Big Joe.
“Why don’t you get a life, Carol,” Steve muttered in an even tone, without taking his eyes off his glass of red wine.
Still looking at Han and maintaining the forced smile, she replied, “I had a life and you stole it from me.”
Janet turned to her, her expression genuine sympathy. “Carol, please …”
Carol whipped her head around with such ferocity that Han thought her head would surely fly off. Glaring at Janet, she hissed, “Save your pity. You’ll need it for yourself.”
Janet’s face flushed almost as red as her hair, and she turned away back to her drink without another word.
To Han, it was a car crash; hypnotic rubbernecking to his morbid curiosities.
“I don’t need this shit, Carol. Get off your cross.” With that, Steve drained the rest of his red wine and strode out, without another word.
“Carol, why do yer have to start this in my boozer, eh?” Big Joe said, shaking his jowly face with his hands planted on his substantial hips. There was anger in his tone, but his face showed deep empathy.
Timidly, she turned to Big Joe, tears welling in her eyes. “S-Sorry, Joe. I just …” Her bottom lip quivered and her voice faltered. With one swift movement, she drained her drink then stubbed out the remains of her cigarette into a Skol ashtray. With far less grace and dignity than her former husband, she fled into the night with tears streaming down her face.
There was a minute of awkward silence as Big Joe glanced from Janet, to Han, to the door.
“Quite the soap opera,” Han said with a half-hearted attempt at humour. Big Joe just shook his head sadly and returned to rinsing glasses. Janet continued to stare into her drink.
“Going through Hell, keep going,” Tam mumbled into his empty glass from the end of the bar.
Lisa walked through from the lounge, with several empty pint glasses stacked in her hands. “Was that Carol making a tit of herself again?”
“Give over, Lisa,” Big Joe muttered with a scowl. Then, with a sigh, he added, “Can you serve Tam? He’s dry again.”
All in all, Han’s first night in Haydon had been enlightening to say the least. The blend of excitement and trepidation that he had felt at the start of his journey was now joined by a hungry curiosity for what would follow. There was so much to do and the clock was ticking.
CHAPTER 3
3rd July. The girl and the playground.
Han awoke from the most restful sleep he had experienced in years, as the first rays of morning sunshine pierced the thin floral curtains. Despite the early hour, he felt refreshed and ready for the day. He swung his legs out of the bed and jumped up, yawning but smiling, his eyes wide and blinking.
With electric razor in hand, Han stared at his unshaven image in the mirror of his pokey en suite bathroom. He had switched it on and was about to start shaving himself when his hand had stopped less than an inch from the skin. The razor vibrated gently in his hand.
“Man, you look just like I feel,” he said to his reflection.
Chuckling, he switched the buzzing device off and popped it back into its pouch. No more shaving, at least while on location. If he was going to be a writer, he was going to have to look the part.
After a brief stand up wash, he dressed in jeans and a M*A*S*H t-shirt, then headed for the door.
The lounge was deserted, apart from the ever fussing Martha. She swooped down on him the instant he sat down at the one table that had been laid out with cutlery, placemat with a Northumberland National Park scene, and a napkin. Her ample breasts, bulging in a plain matronly dress, swayed close to his face as she swept away imaginary specks of dust from the table.
After a considerable Scottish fry up that would block all but the healthiest arteries, followed by two cups of tea, he headed out into the cool fresh morning sunshine.
It wasn’t quite nine AM, but the village centre already seemed a bustle of activity. The Co-op and the Post Office both had customers, Henhouse Steve could be seen leaving the former in a sweaty t-shirt and jogging shorts. Three older gents, two in obligatory beige overcoats and caps and the third in a tartan dressing gown and slippers, were stood around the bench under the mighty oak. They stopped their animated conversation on seeing the stranger in their midst. All three turned in unison to stare at him. There was no attempt at subtlety, just open distrust.
Han offered them a broad smile and then turned right to head down Miller’s Road. Unlike Main Street, the narrow off-shoot was cobbled and far more in keeping with Han’s mental image of a quaint little village. After passing S Priestly Chemists and a cluster of narrow terraced houses, Miller’s Road ended quite abruptly. It was replaced by a gravel footpath that led into a dense wooded area of birch, oak and alder. Thick luscious branches intertwined above the path to offer a latticework canopy.
Not wanting to backtrack just yet, he decided to venture into the woods. The bubbling,
dove-like call of a black grouse, somewhere within the woods, greeted him as he walked casually along the shrouded path. Vibrant bluebells and clumps of wild grass lined its edge, and a rustling of leaves rippled through the branches above with the caress of a gentle breeze that carried on it an array of woodland scents.
A five minute walk brought him into a bright picnic area with a swing, roundabout, slide and a wooden climbing frame. This quiet woodland sanctuary was clean and well-kept; the grass well-groomed and not a scrap of litter or an expletive of graffiti. It was bordered on the far side by a shallow, rocky stream with stepping stones that allow the walker to continue along the path beyond. Narrow dirt tracks led off on both sides of the clearing, leading deeper into the forest.
Dressed in an obscenely short denim skirt and tight low cut top, the barmaid – Lisa – stood at the swings pushing a little girl gently backwards and forwards. She hadn’t noticed his arrival. There was a distant, dreamy look in her eyes as she gazed out past the stream. She looked pale and fragile in the dazzling sunshine.
The girl, maybe four, was also quiet and following her mother’s gaze as she swung back and forth, accompanied by the rhythmic creak of the chains. As he approached, he could see a resemblance between mother and daughter, except for the thick curly blonde locks on the child.
Lisa was like a statue, only the briefest movement from one hand to keep the swing moving. Her daughter was just as still. Both staring, silent, at the stream. No giggles, no chat, just staring.
Beginning to feel uncomfortable and having crossed most of the distance, he felt compelled to say something. He said, “Hi.”
“Fuck!” was her startled reply as she swung round to face him, her diminutive chest heaving almost out of her low top. Seeing that it was Han, she flushed red and composed herself, hoisting her top up to a more respectable level. “Sorry, you scared the shit out of us there.”
Han laughed and, holding up his hands, he offered a brief apology. “This your daughter?” He bent down and smiled at the little girl who had now fixed her intense stare on him. She had wide, curious eyes, the same colour of stormy sea grey as her mother’s.