I was so much more than I was before, and yet I had one last task to perform. One great gift to give to those who were like me, were of me.
“Auntie.” I whispered. “Are you still in touch with the ship's main computer?”
“I have a memory of that but it is fading.” she said.
“They must return to the lighthouse as have we.” I said.
“Ah. The sleepers.”
“Yes. Release them from their sleep auntie. Let them come home.”
“I shall.” she whispered, and the walls of the lighthouse seemed to fade and from the burning ship as it entered the planet’s atmosphere sprung forth the lights of every waking soul, and from the colonist discs’ lights began to pour down from the heavens, pouring down to greet the billions and billions of souls that waited for them to return back from where they came, and slowly the lights poured into the tower, and they were home, coming back once again.
To the lighthouse.
The Story-Telling Competition
Charlie Horse straightened his white apron and stalked back behind the bar of the Bucket and Shovel, swinging the bar hatch shut loudly behind him. Thursday nights were not usually this busy he thought, but this Thursday was most definitely going to be a busy night, for the brewery had arranged an event that unfortunately clashed with one of the local events he had arranged personally. Charlie in his mind colour coded the days of the week, all of which related directly to how busy he was going to be on each day. Lunchtimes, he found, were much more sedate and did not count. Afternoons he left to his staff, for he was a publican, and afternoons were for putting your feet up, not serving beer.
Mondays, were for example, blue. Quiet. Tuesdays were a lighter shade of blue, and Wednesdays were green, mostly because it was pub quiz night. Thursdays were brown, Friday’s red and Saturdays Crimson. Sunday was a curious mixture of red that veered sharply towards purple that to Charlie he could never quite explain to himself. It was just how it was really. Charlie had tried stamping his feet and making a fuss about the clash of events of course, but to no avail. The brewery was not shifting and neither, true to form, was he.
The first event was the real ale and guest beer night. Many pubs ran this as a matter of course. but Charlie was always of the opinion that strong cheap beer and idiots did not mix terribly well, and so tried to put the event off as many times as he possibly could. The usual mass produced beer he served as par for the course was of course fine, not because it was even cheaper than the real ales, nor because his customers were not suddenly transformed into non-idiots, but more because it was of course as weak as gnat’s piss and so therefore lots of it had to be supped before you even approached a mild state of inebriation. That also therefore equated to more cash in the till, and so real ale that often needed just half a glass to turn your average punter into a state of that resembling a zombie just did not make good business sense at all.
Still, he had not been able to get out of it this time and so he cringed as he noticed the posters on the wall yet again, making him slightly hotter under the collar than normal. Give the brewery their due they had pulled the stops out, thought Charlie. There were three guest real ales available, posters, flyers and promotional prizes (T-shirts and the like) as well as a costume for himself that he resolutely refused to wear. The costume was based on one of the three real ales newly available which was called, “Badger’s Arse”, and the costume the brewery had sent was definitely a bit of a shock when all was said and done. There was no way however that he was dressing up as anyone’s arse, never mind a badger’s, and so the costume remained in the box. Charlie was okay with his badge however, which read “Hoppy to Help”, referring to the second real ale, “The Furtler’s Flute”, which apparently had a strong hop-rich infusion. Charlie thought it sounded a bit risqué, but then he had noticed in the past that they often did. Apparently it was part of the attraction. It didn’t explain the last guest beer however, which was called, “The Cow and the Moon” and the tap label had a picture of a cow jumping over the moon on it.’ Apparently it was quite strong.
All of which was a complete and utter waste to his normal clientele in the lounge. Whilst the lounge was slowly but surely filling up with the customers for the evening's second, and as far as Charlie was concerned, real event, the real ale night had so far only managed to pull in three real ale buffs. The unfortunate thing is they were the three biggest bores in the village, for whom a real ale night was a definite treat. For Charlie it was the exact opposite.
The second, and as far as Charlie was concerned, more important event was the annual village tall story telling competition. Charlie had been the licensee of the Bucket and Shovel for many years now, and although at first he had struggled with the idea of holding a storytelling competition in the pub, when he counted the night’s takings after the pub had closed, the idea had grown on him considerably.
The concept was relatively simple. Three contestants, picked by the local lion’s club would in turn tell a tall story, and a panel of judges would award one of them the winner’s trophy. This year was going to be especially interesting, as the previous five competitions had all been won by the same competitor, Kevin Notenough, who was this evening defending his title for a remarkable sixth time. It was as remarkable a thing as his surname, Charlie thought to himself, if not more so.
So Charlie was more than a little disappointed that the brewery would not move the real event, but Charlie did have to concede that this was probably because he had made them move it six times already. Seventh time unlucky, he supposed, and so he turned his attention to the three customers who were most definitely only here for the beer.
“Ah Charlie!” bellowed the largest of the three men who were gathered around the bar, an air of middle class anticipation hanging over them as if they were all awaiting the reading of their favourite rich maiden aunt’s will. Charlie knew that Tom was the large man’s name, and he had what looked like a cricket jumper wrapped around his somewhat robust waist, the arms of the jumper knotted round his middle as if they were desperately attempting to strangle him for crimes against fashion. “There you are!” Charlie gritted his teeth. “So what fine real ales do you have to tempt us with tonight then, Charlie my old chap? A little bird whispered in my ear that there may just be the chance for me to sup on the Furtler’s Flute tonight!” Charlie resisted the urge to give the obvious answer as there may have just been an off chance that Tom was actually aware he was making a twat of himself. Tom was enjoying his own joke a little too much however to the extent that he was currently slapping the second man who Charlie knew to be called Dick about the shoulder, almost knocking him off the stool that Dick was desperately trying to keep himself from falling off.
Dick righted himself on the stool and then straightened the bow tie that he was wearing. To say Dick looked weedy was an understatement of such proportions that it was nearly infinitesimal, though Charlie did relish the thought that the abbreviation of his Christian name of Richard was in his case highly appropriate. He was dressed in a light tweed jacket and looked as if even a slight breeze would carry him off. He was a man for whom the noun “allergies” was invented. He was also the owner of the most annoying laugh Charlie had ever heard.
“Fuh-unh!” laughed Dick, and Charlie was tempted to say “Bless you.” In fact, the first time he had heard Dick laugh he had thought he was choking and spent the next thirty seconds trying desperately to dredge his memories of how exactly you performed the Heinrich manoeuvre. The last man, Damien, chimed in next.
“Oh! Then there was that one called The cow and the moon!” I remember the first glass I had of that back in… now when was it? Hmm… anyway, nearly blew my ruddy head off I seem to remember.” Charlie suppressed a sneer. As far as he was concerned Damien was so self-centered that he was sure he had his own gravitational field. His self-belief was honed to such a degree that it verged on self-delusion. Every single conversation you had with him at some point or another (and usually sooner
rather than later) would end up with him talking about himself. Damien had always been there, done that, had in fact done anything at all you cared to mention to him at least once already. Sometimes more than once. And always, always in a much more dramatic fashion.
Charlie had realised this very early on and had ever since amused himself by introducing such bizarre topics of conversation that it had kept him snickering for hours later. Legendary were the tales of Damien’s exploits in the fields of ferret tipping, sausage smuggling in Peru, and his no doubt dazzling invention of the portable Spork. Needless to say, Charlie had made all of these up, but Damien had of course taken the bait and had done them all already; only bigger, better, and with much more of a flourish. Charlie could hardly look the man in the face without laughing. He was a man for whom the word “fuckwit” had been coined.
Tom, Dick and Damien however were ready for a tipple, and stood looking at the newly fitted labels on the bar taps, almost licking their lips in anticipation. Charlie sighed under his breath at the thought of a man who took beer so seriously. He considered it highly likely that if any of these three knob heads ever had the misfortune of supping a can of supermarket lager then they would probably spontaneously self-combust. Charlie thought that surely any beer was surely to be savoured; enjoyed, not put under a microscope and taken apart bit by bit. Nevertheless. He took a deep breath. Approaching the three men and wishing he was currently in possession of a chainsaw he made himself ready behind the bar. “Just as well I am in a good mood.” he thought.
“What’s it to be then, gentlemen?” He asked. Even now he couldn’t help himself. “How about a nice drop of “The Cow and the Moon?” Or maybe you are interested in the “Furtler’s Flute”? I can’t say I would be at all able to judge you if indeed you were that way inclined. He noticed Dick frown at this, the fact that he was being insulted registering somewhere in his closed off middle class morass of a brain. Charlie could almost see the insult bouncing off them all however, their sense of self-importance acting as a permanent shield against the rest of the world. “And who will be the first for the badgers arse?” There was a general air of “Me, me, me!” before Tom spoke for them all.
“I think we’ll start with the Furtler’s Flute, Charlie my boy.” he said. “I think the toasted grain and malt will make for a nice starting point and keep the palate clean for the Badger’s Arse later.” Charlie descended behind the counter almost as if he was on a lift, pretending to look for glasses as he chuckled to himself as he rapidly descended below the counter. After a few seconds he composed himself and popped the glasses onto the bar, selecting one to pour the first pint.
The next ten minutes saw Charlie not so much taking his time to pour the three pint’s, as pouring them in slow motion. Tom, Dick and Damian would wait until they all had a pint in front of them before any of them took a sip of course and Charlie knew this all too well.
Slowly the pints of “Furtler’s Flute” were poured and placed in front of them, and Charlie took the money. “This real ale stuff doesn’t come cheap” he thought to himself as he handed Tom very little change indeed from his twenty-pound note, before consoling himself with the thought that it didn’t matter how much it cost really, it was completely wasted on three fools such as these. Also three expensive pints did not equate financially to twenty pints of gnat’s piss. Charlie had done the maths. Charlie knew what was coming next of course, and cringed inwardly.
“Cheers gentlemen!” said Dick, and almost in unison Damien and Tom repeated this. There was a silence between them, the lounge filling up for the competition behind them as the three men took a tentative first sip of their beer. Tom was the first to place his pint firmly back on the bar, followed closely by the other two. They had all, Charlie noticed, drunk about half an inch's worth.
“A tasty drop.” said Damien, as Dick lifted his pint once again and took a second small swig of his Furtler’s Flute, swilling it around his mouth. Charlie wished he was somewhere else. Anywhere else, really. Dick chimed in.
“Chocolate rising. A thrush in the hedgerow. Aniseed topped with raw cane sugar.” the other two men nodded solemnly. Charlie thought to himself that Dick could have said it seemed to be made from the contents of an ocelot’s pocket and the other two would still have agreed. “An edge of custard and rhubarb. Hedgehog rolling in grain. An angered bat.” Charlie stared at the contents of the beer written carefully on the rear of the tap label. Dick didn’t seem to be doing too well at all ingredients wise he thought.
“A hint of sunburn.” added Tom and the other two nodded eagerly. Charlie considered for a moment if the three men were actually discussing the contents of some witch’s potion, and this thought made his carefully held smile just a little wider.
“Enjoyable gentlemen?” he asked, smiling politely. He knew it would take a lot more than a pint of real ale however good to keep this trio of fools happy, but thought that it would be interesting to see what their objections would be.
“Well I’ve had better.” boomed Tom, and Dick looked as if he was in agreement too.
“Probably not settled. Needs to stand for at least six months without being disturbed according to the brewer’s handbook.” Added Damien.
“Really?” said Charlie sweetly. “Well if it was standing for that long I would consider charging it rent I should think.” The smile Charlie beamed in their direction gave the trio at the bar an element of confusion. They collectively decided that it may just be a possibility that Charlie was taking the piss out of them, before also as one deciding that this most certainly couldn’t be the case. After all, he was smiling, wasn’t he?
“I think The Cow and the Moon next?” said Tom, adjusting his waist tied cricket jumper over his voluminous hop filled belly. The other two men nodded eagerly and Charlie began to pour. In between pints (which took even longer this time than last time mainly because Charlie decided to take his time even more.) he adjusted his “Hoppy’s to help” badge, whilst at the same time considering the fact that there was a definite look of Mr. Toad about Tom.
As he was pouring Charlie was careful to maintain a careful silence, almost as if he was defusing a World war two bomb, but the three men at the bar ignored him completely, all their attention being focused on the stew of hops and barley that comprised the “cow and the moon” being poured in front of them. The final pint poured, Charlie placed it in front of them and once paid for, the three men sat salivating at the beer, almost as if wanting to prolong the pleasure.
“Cheers!” chimed Damien this time, and the pints were supped almost in unison. Tom placed his back on the bar first, licking his lips.
“Birds nest in a muddle.” Dick nodded as Damien continued. “A long weight. Coconut fading to almond in a bus lane. A Nadgers tuppence.” (For years after Charlie considered what it was that Damien had actually said that night. He was sure he said “A Nadgers tuppence” which certainly sounded like he might have bitten his tongue while talking, but it hadn’t looked like it, and Charlie didn’t think that this was the case. Over the years, usually in the wee small hours of the night Charlie would lie awake trying to imagine exactly what it was that the beer bore had said, or more accurately, what exactly a Nadgers tuppence actually was.)
Tom joined in next.
“Rats in the skirting board. Blackcurrant toffee and ash. An oak undertow then barley sugar rising. Pistols at dawn.”
“Three blind mice in a Ferrari” concluded Dick and they all nodded. The moans however were already on the way.
“Probably an ‘83 barrel.” said Dick and Tom and Damien shuffled in agreement.
“The ‘97 was the best.” Sighed Tom, at more or less precisely the time that Charlie lost the will to live. He left the drinkers alone with their pond water for a while, letting them take their time. There was only one ale left to try and he knew they would nurse that for at least an hour after that. Of course really what Charlie wanted to do was go and see how the assembling patrons of the Story-Telling competitio
n were getting on. The three men were currently deeply involved in a conversation that seemed to be intertwining the topics of the benefits of owning a conservatory with a heated discussion on the latest cricket score. Charlie sighed to himself. Cricket wasn’t a real sport. Any game where you stopped for lunch couldn’t possibly be entertaining in any way whatsoever. Eventually he wandered back to the bar.
“Anyone for the Badger’s Arse, gentlemen?” he asked, having no doubt that he was bringing to their collective minds some best forgotten memories of their public school days.
Charlie passed over the job of pouring the pints to his head barmaid Sally, and crossed the lounge to supervise the setting up of the story telling competition. The top table for the four judges was already in place, as was a single table with a microphone on a stand already in place. Tables were arranged around and before this for the audience, and already they were quickly filling up. Charlie decided that this was far more deserving of his attention than three prats supping yeast remnants.
“Did you know Guinness was only invented because they burnt the hops?” he said to Tom Finlay as he approached the top table. Tom was the head of the judges and as far as Charlie was concerned, as bent as a six-pound note. That he was big friends and workmates with Kevin Notenough as well as being his uncle was not entirely a coincidence. Kevin, despite the highly suspect name of, “Notenough” was the winner of the tall story telling competition for the last five years on the run. To Charlie this was a highly unlikely situation, but he was quite happy for them to play their silly games under his roof. As long as they all sipped his ale and bought his pickled eggs, peanuts or crisps then he was more than happy for them to do whatever they wanted. Well, within reason of course.
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