by Brian Alford
However, to many members Barndem was more than just a drinking club. Though this was a significant attraction there were other reasons for being there, not least the companionship of others. This was certainly true in the case of Henry, Vic, Bill and Bob and for them it would have been sacrilege even to contemplate the thought of going anywhere else.
For several days after the Scotch had run out the companions met and sat gloomily at the bar trying to come to terms with the disaster. In a desperate attempt to find an alternative to the amber liquor they tried gin, vodka, brandy, and a whole host of brightly coloured poisons lurking in gaudy old bottles behind the bar. There was a long standing tradition amongst the members to bring back a bottle of spirit or liqueur from a holiday abroad. Indeed competition to find a new beverage was fierce and the discovery of a novel and even more outlandish brew was a source of much pride for the finder.
Over the years a vast collection of highly colourful and dubious looking bottles had accumulated on the array of shelves behind the bar. Just occasionally some brave member ventured to try one of the brews, sometimes out of curiosity but usually as a dare or bet. In the case of Henry and his companions the strange liquids were tried out of desperation. As the bottles were all donated the club levied only a minimal charge for drinks and so the sojourn into new territory had an added special attraction for Henry.
It was Bill who finally cracked under the terrible pressure of the deprivation. Much of his working life had been spent travelling abroad and he had painful and unpleasant memories of dubious foreign concoctions. He had settled on whisky as being safe and least disruptive to his delicate constitution and the brush with the noxious liquids in the multicoloured bottles behind the bar was not to his liking. It evoked uncomfortable memories of past indiscretions.
On the fourth day of their deprivation Bill arrived at the club carrying a plastic carrier bag bearing the proud inscription Stefano’s Wine Emporium. With a triumphant smile of satisfaction he removed four bottles from the bag and placed them on the bar.
“There you go. I don’t know about you lot but I’m cheesed off with this situation so I’ve taken things into my own hands.”
Vic peered suspiciously at the bottles. “What are they?”
“Scotch my boy, Real men’s drink.”
Three pairs of eager hands reached out to pick up the bottles which carried a plain white label with a black hieroglyphic inscription.
Hoot Cocky Mon
GENINE SCATCH WIHSKEE
Brewed in Scatchland by Scatchmen
75 ml 70% Proov
Henry turned the bottle over suspiciously in his hands and stared in disbelief at the label. “What the hell is Scatch?”
Vic frowned and shook his head. “Sounds like the Japanese way of spelling Scotch.”
Anyone who had heard Bill the worse for wear shouting down the telephone would fully understand how the listener on the other end could mishear Scotch as Scatch. Bill’s deep local accent slurred by drink was usually incomprehensible to all but his closest friends.
Bill was a little hurt that his efforts were being so disparaged. “Oh no, I have it on reliable authority that this did not come from Japan.”
Vic continued to view the bottle with visible distaste. “I’m not sure whether to feel relieved or worried. So where does it come from?”
Henry was still fiddling with the odd shaped bottle. “It says on the label here, its from Scatchland.”
“Of course. I should have guessed.” Vic placed the bottle back on the bar and signalled to the approaching Colin.
For once he seemed in a jovial mood. The lack of customers and consequent lightening of his load obviously agreed with him. “What can I get you fellows?”
Henry pushed his empty glass in the direction of Colin. “Double Scatch please.”
Colin looked round at the array of foreign bottles on the shelves behind him. “A double Scatch? I haven’t heard of that one. Which one is it?”
Henry jiggled the bottle in front of him on the bar. “This one here.”
Colin picked up the bottle and examined it. “Is this some kind of joke?”
Bill snatched the bottle angrily. “No it isn’t.”
Colin was startled by the unexpected reaction. “Oh sorry.” Surveying the bottles from a safer distance he was suddenly struck with a thought. “Hang on, you know you’re not supposed to bring your own drink in here. The rules say only drink purchased from the bar is to be consumed on the premises.”
Bill had thought of this problem. “How about if I donate these to the bar and you sell it to us really cheap? That’s within the rules after all it is Taiwan Scotch.”
Vic looked knowingly at Bill. “Ah, so Scatchland is in Taiwan is it?”
Bill shrugged his shoulders. “Well I said it wasn’t Japanese.”
Colin was thoughtfully stroking his chin. “How cheap?”
“Free cheap.”
Colin let out a long sceptical sigh. “Phhhhh. If Mister Sillinghurst finds out my head will be for the chop.”
Bill was getting angry again. “Contrary to what he might think, Mister Sillinghurst does not own Barndem.”
“Maybe not but I’m not going to be the one to tell him.”
Henry placed his arms on the bar in front of him and rested his weary head on his raised hands. “Someone ought to bloody tell him. Just because he’s got a problem with his workforce, why should we have to suffer? Its not our fault is it? I mean its not much to ask for, a quiet drink and …”
Bills disagreeable mood was not being helped by Henrys moaning. “Oh do shut up Henry! Colin let us have five glasses please.” After a short wrestle with one of the Scatch bottles Bill managed to free the screw top and poured a generous measure into the five hastily produced tumblers. Cautiously and with trepidation the five glasses were raised and a strange chorus of sipping was heard. Silence followed and a look of pained anguish appeared on all five faces as the glasses were swiftly replaced on the bar with common unspoken agreement on the strange liquid.
Henry sat up straight and thumped the bar with a determined resolution. “OK, we’re buggered. We can only take delivery of Whisky supplied by Barndem brewery Right? And Barndem brewery aren’t delivering right?”
Vic frowned. This line of conversation did not sound appealing. “I can’t fault such impeccable logic but where is it leading?”
“So we’ll deliver for them.”
“I’m not sure I like the sound of the we but go on, explain further.”
“Simple. We’ll break into the brewery storehouse and help ourselves to some bottles.”
“But that’s stealing.”
“Not if we leave the money it isn’t. Its purchasing legally but without the owners knowledge.”
“Or in the case of Sillinghurst, without the owners consent.”
Henry waved a dismissive hand. “A mere detail.”
Bob had actually managed to finish the glass of Scatch. “You know philosophically Henry has a good point. Sillinghurst is simply the caretaker of the Scotch until a legitimate buyer appears. Think of the distillers. Why should they suffer because Sillinghurst is being petty? I mean all we would really be doing is re-opening the legitimate lines of trade. The distillers are the real owners and I can’t see them objecting to it being sold even if dubiously.”
Bill was far from happy with the idea. “I’m really not sure I want to get involved in something so risky. What if we’re caught?”
Henry scoffed. “Who’s going to catch us?”
“The security guard.”
“What old Roger? He couldn’t catch a cold. Besides I happen to know that the crafty old bugger sneaks off to the back of one of the warehouses and sleeps all night.”
“How do you just happen to know?”
“That’s my business. I just do. Besides he’s an old friend. If he caught us he wouldn’t shop us.”
It was true to say that most of the conversation that took place between the fo
ur men sat at the bar belonged to the realm of fantasy. When all was said than done, there was definitely more said than done. But just occasionally something was raised which struck a chord and seemed to carry with it an inevitable momentum. Henrys wild plan was just such an idea. Slowly it turned from a foolhardy discussion point into a serious plan as one by one the problems and objections were aired. In the safety and sanctuary of the clubhouse lounge bar anything was possible and the transition to the real world became a simple step.
With courage fortified by a toxic cocktail of foreign liqueurs the four men set off for Barndem Brewery. On the way they collected Bills’ van and one of the many ladders he used in his odd-job enterprise.
The entrance to the brewery was an imposing set of high wrought iron gates above which the words Barndem Brewery proudly shone in the moonlight. To either side of the gates was a containing wall some eight feet high. As the wall was considerably lower than the gates it was decided this would be the best way in. The hastily hatched and strikingly simple plan was for someone to climb the wall and open the gates. Carefully and with a great deal of huffing and puffing the ladder was leaned against the wall adjacent to the gate.
Vic grabbed Henrys’ right arm and moved him in the direction of the ladder. “Right, up you go Henry.”
Henry tugged his arm away and stopped dead in his tracks. “Why me?”
Vic placed his hands on his hips and spoke sternly. “Because this whole insane scheme is yours. Right, no more arguments, up you go. Bob, you hold the ladder for him.”
Slowly Henry climbed the ladder. With both feet on the ground Henry had learned to cope with the constant sway which a combination of his ample frame and drinking habit had induced to his sense of balance. Once off the ground things were entirely different. The higher up the ladder he climbed the more violently he began to sway and the less enamoured he became with the operation. As he approached the top he looked down to where Bob was attempting to hold on to the tottering ladder. “Hold it steady for goodness sake.”
“Its rather difficult Henry, you keep swaying about.”
“Dammit its not me that’s swaying, its the bloody ladder. Now hold it still.”
Bob took an even firmer grip on the ladder just as Henry gingerly placed a foot on top of the wall. With Henrys weight considerably decreased Bobs firm grip now wrenched the ladder away toppling Henry over the wall. A cascade of crashing and a loud yell was heard from the other side of the wall as Henry fell down a pile of empty plastic beer crates.
Bill nudged the startled Bob. “I think he’s over.”
Bob stood clutching the empty ladder. “I hope he’s not hurt.”
“Not Henry, with all that blubber he’ll just bounce. Its the crates you’ve got to feel sorry for.”
Moments later an extremely dishevelled and angry Henry opened the gates and stood glaring at his accomplices. The colourful nature of his greeting is best left undocumented.
Once inside the fortification of the brewery there was little impediment to the intruder. Most of the items likely to be stolen were very heavy and besides there was always old Roger the ever present security guard. The object of the present intruders search presented more of a problem since the bottles of spirits were locked in a small warehouse adjoining the main office block.
Steathily the four men crept across the old cobbled yard of the brewery towards the main building. At the door to the warehouse Bill produced a set of keys and began to juggle with the ancient padlock. After a good deal of twisting and muttered oaths the padlock sprang open and clattered to the ground. Bending down Henry picked up the padlock and immediately dropped it again in disgust. The padlock landed on Vic’s foot.
“What are you doing you stupid…”
“Its covered in shit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Damn padlock’s covered in horse shit.”
Barndem Brewery was very proud of its pair of dray horses. On special occasions the horses were used to tow one of the original wooden delivery carts through the local town. It was a splendid sight carrying on the traditions of over a century but there were some unfortunate side effects as Henry had just discovered.
Inside the damp and musty warehouse the four men rummaged in the dark trying to locate the boxes whose marking indicated that the contents were Scotch Whisky. With his unerring sixth sense for the beverage Henry was the first to locate cases which showed most promise. Prizing open the top of a case he extracted a bottle, unscrewed the top and took a long pleasurable gulp. With an ecstatic sigh he sat back on some cases just behind him and took a second opinion as to the contents of the bottle.
Just as Henry was about to take a third opinion Vic stumbled into him. A contented nod and wink from Henry made it plain to Vic that he had succeeded in his quest. “Henry, we’re supposed to be taking the whisky out in the bottles, not inside you.”
“What’s the difference? Its where it will end up. I’m just saving time.”
“You’re incorrigible. Come on let’s get what we came for and go quickly. And we’d better pay for that bottle your drinking too.”
Henry raised the bottle in salutation and was about to drink again when a beam of light flashed across their faces. It was the torch of Roger who was doing his regular round. It was a twice hourly ritual, at least it was when he did not fall asleep somewhere. All offices and warehouses were to be checked and all doors examined. On this occasion Roger had found the door to the warehouse unlocked. Though not necessarily something to worry about he had decided to do an extra check.
By now Henry and Vic were being joined by Bill and Bob. As the torch beam flashed past for a second time Bob stumbled into a case and a loud crack was heard. Roger flashed the torch in the direction of the sound.
“Who’s there?”
Henry jumped up from his makeshift seat. “Bloody hell, its Roger. Leave this to me.”
Pushing the others behind a stack of boxes Henry raced forward to meet the security guard. “Roger, my old mate. How are you?”
“Henry? What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were burglars or something.” Roger viewed the bottle in Henrys hand with suspicion. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”
Henry noticed Rogers’ eyes looking at the bottle “Its not what you think. We’ve er, I mean I’ve come here to er, to buy some Scotch.”
“Buy some Scotch? Have you thought of trying an off licence or wine shop?”
“Its a bit more complicated than that. Lets get out of here and I’ll explain.”
“This should make good listening.”
As the two men walked out of the warehouse Henry waved an indecipherable signal to his hiding companions. Vic, Bill and Bob stood for a few moments trying to calm their racing thoughts. It was not a comfortable feeling to know that their fate now lay in the hands of Henry. With fatalist resignation the three men finished the task for which they had come. Removing five bottles from one of the cases they left an envelope pinned to the outside. It contained the exact amount of money they had worked out with the reluctant club steward Colin; sufficient to cover the cost of the whisky. The plan was to acquire six bottles but being honest men they accounted for the bottle with which Henry had disappeared.
Their task done they lingered a while waiting for Henry. As the time ticked by they were forced to reason that they must abandon Henry to is fate less they all got caught. But there was at least the comforting thought that Henry always managed somehow to extricate himself from the many mishaps and disasters which befell him.
The following day Vic, Bob and Bill gathered as usual in the clubhouse bar. It was a source of considerable relief thought no great surprise when Henry arrived, as usual just in time to avoid the first round. Despite cross-examination by his curious companions Henry kept tight lipped about what had happened after he had walked away with Roger. All he would volunteer was that everything was sorted. He was equally non-committal about the fate of the bottle of Scotch he
had purloined though its fate was easily deduced.
That was however not quite the end of the story. Two days later the local paper carried a small report about a security guard at Barndem Brewery having been dismissed for being drunk on duty. In his defence he had claimed that an unnamed accomplice had led him astray, but no-one really believed him, well, almost no-one.
As with all human conflict, the dispute eventually ran its course and a compromise was reached between Barndem Ales and its employees. And again as with most human conflicts no one was really the winner though both sides claimed victory. Neither side cared about the collateral damage in the shape of Henry and his friends, and of course poor Roger. They were left to carry on the resentment long after Barndem Ales and its employees had moved on to the next inevitable dispute.
This concerned the fate of the dray horses, with whose deposits Henry had become intimately acquainted during the Whiskey liberation. They were for the knackers yard (or the modern day equivalent). This caused much unrest amongst the lady members whose love of animals far exceeded any grudging affection they held for the male members of the club. But, that is a story for another time.
Mary’s Stand
There was a time, many decades ago when Barndem was a masculine sanctuary, a place where men could escape the rigours and vicissitudes of life. Once through the magnificent high cast iron entrance gates there was nothing to do but relax and enjoy life’s more pleasurable indulgences, food, drink, golf, and the company of like-minded male souls.
Whatever their fiscal, social or personal differences, the members of Barndem were at home with each other and temporarily safe from the world outside. Of course there was the inevitable bickering and differences of opinion. But these were the logical discourse of menfolk not the inexplicable babbling criticism of womenfolk. That was left at home; in its rightful and proper place.
History does not recall when or who first made the sacrilegious suggestion that women should be admitted to Barndem but the name of the first lady member was never to be forgotten. Unfortunately for the sanctity of Barndem, Mary Tobias was a woman ahead of her time. She had a vision of women that would today be old news but in her time marked her as a dangerous troublemaker. Had she been any less then the portals of Barndem could have comfortably resisted her attack. But Mary was no mere woman.