Stranger at the Wedding

by Jack G. Hills

  The newspaper said it was an open and shut case of something they called a crime of passion.” She’d explained to a bemused Donald, whose only wish was that he’d never asked the question in the first place.

  “You wouldn’t think so much could happen in one tiny fishing village miles from anywhere, would you?” Donald said rhetorically, hoping to draw a line under the various tales of woe and misadventures.

  “It’s always the quiet ones… mark my words.” Mrs Trubshaw declared standing up suddenly before starting to rearrange the cushions and straighten out the slightly worn and moth eaten throw that protected her equally tired sofa.

  “Now I’ve got to be getting on, I can’t sit here all day listening to all your gossip. I haven’t even washed up the breakfast dishes and then there’s the beds to be made and I normally give the whole place a thorough dust and vacuum on a Monday morning… you know after the weekend. All that’s gone out of the window of course and I’m meeting the ladies down at the Anchor later… we try to meet up at least once a week for lunch and a catch up. So come on, let’s be having you out from under my feet… if you don’t have anything better to occupy your time… I most certainly do.” And like a mother hen she began to shoo Donald out of the lounge.

  “Just one thing more Elsie. When is Mr Fitzgerald getting married precisely and where?” In the avalanche of information, Donald couldn’t remember if she’d given him the details or he’d just been overwhelmed by the amount of gossip.

  “I’m not sure you’ve listened to a word I’ve been saying have you… The wedding is tomorrow at the hotel.” Elsie looked away and checked no one was eavesdropping their conversation before continuing. Her slight head movement thoroughly confused Donald who remembered quite clearly that he was the only guest. “…If you ask me they’re doing it on the cheap. They’re even honeymooning up in Scotland at some big swanky hotel he owns up there. Now call me old fashioned but I don’t think that’s very romantic do you? Anyway, it’s best not to say anything that’s what I think, so I’ll mind you keep your opinions to yourself. We’re a small community down here and don’t like people coming in and gossiping about the town.”

  Donald was left dumbstruck by the woman’s blatant double standards and hypocrisy. What he wondered, did she tell her friends about her guests when they met for their once a week catch up.

  “Thank you Elsie. I’ll try to remember that when I’m walking around the town.” He replied nodding his head appreciatively “Oh and be sure to give my best wishes to your lunch coven when you meet.” Donald said with such sincerity that he was half way into town before his landlady had fully appreciated what he’d said.

  Overwhelmed by the apparent slur to her good character, Elsie Trubshaw felt compelled to leave her housework and seek out the special bottle of Amontillado, which had been given to her the previous Christmas by one of her regular guests… best wishes indeed, she’d give him best wishes when she next saw him, she declared to herself as she downed the first of three large glasses of sherry.

  Once free of the smothering chatter and overpowering Tweed perfume that his landlady must have bathed in each morning, Donald thought that he’d spend the rest of the day strolling around the town, in the hope that something might trigger a thought or the merest inkling of a memory from his past. Maybe someone would recognise him and call out his name… a name which would be the spark that would set off an avalanche of memories.

  After a couple of hours of fruitless sightseeing, during which he’d looked hopefully at everyone who passed him by but who in return merely thought the stranger was lost or simple minded, Donald had felt ready for a drink. So with Mrs Trubshaw’s dire warning about the Anchor Inn being the town’s centre of debauchery and loose tongues, ringing in his ears, he decided that the pub would be the ideal place to drown his disappointment at not being instantly recognised.

  Purely by chance and after taking the decision to temporarily adjourn his investigation, Donald emerged from his meanderings through the warren of narrow lanes that were bordered by row upon row of fishermen’s cottages, right outside the restaurant that Elsie had told him about.

  Bistro Henri looked a very sad and cold place, as he stared inside through the locked door. The window to the side displayed a large hand-written sign that told old and new customers alike that the place was closed ‘until further notice’. There was no explanation, no apologies and no clue as to when it would ever re-open its doors to the gourmets of Padstow.

  With his hand shielding his eyes from the glare of the weak sunlight and silvery reflection of the glass, he searched the bistro’s interior for anything that he might recognise, but nothing tweaked his interest except for the abandoned fireplace. There was something very lonely, he thought, about a large hearth that didn’t glow red hot from a roaring blazing log fire. Now, there were no embers glowing white hot or orange flames licking the back of the soot encrusted chimney, causing pieces of glowing charcoal to break away before being swept upwards on the warm currents of air, only to be extinguished and forgotten about in the colder, darker regions of the chimney’s flue.

  All that remained of the once welcoming fire, were the charred remains of some pine logs, the grey ash of their predecessors and the soot… but without the glowing flames, it remained black and lifeless.

  “Sad looking isn’t it?” The stranger’s voice echoed around the small confines of the restaurant’s vestibule, making Donald jump with surprise. He’d been so lost in the moment and the memory of a roaring log fire that he’d not heard the stranger approach.

  “I’ve not seen anyone there for months now… personally I don’t think she’ll ever open up again, which is a pity because Henri was a dam good chef and he probably had the best selection of malt whiskies in these parts. I’ve spent many a night sat in front of that fire sipping a dram or two after sampling one of his many fine culinary masterpieces.” Donald turned round slowly and wondered who the voice might belong to and if he might recognise the face of the unannounced messenger.

  “I remember one called Loch Dhu… it was a black whisky.” The words had tumbled from Donald’s mouth before he had a chance to realise what he’d said or the opportunity to remember where he’d tasted the whisky.

  The man, who was attired from head to toe in blue yachting gear, smiled as he too remembered such an occasion.

  “Aye, Loch Dhu was one of Henri’s favourites alright. I guess if he shared a dram or two with you, you must have known him well enough.” The yachtsman said with a friendly nod, as he turned tail and started to wander off.

  Donald’s eyes unerringly followed the elderly sailor’s retreat, as he tried to remember more. He’d not mentioned anyone called Henri and couldn’t remember where he’d taken a dram of the malt… but it was a memory and a start. Of course he could have had a drink of the whisky anywhere, but logic surely dictated that the man must be right in his assumption… otherwise how else had he known about the whisky?…It hadn’t been a conscious thought, it had just surfaced from some unfathomable depth within his brain and he knew it wasn’t some forgotten moment from his days under the Monroe’s roof, as the good doctor had signed the pledge when he was a teenager and had steadfastly remained a teetotaller all his life.

  “Excuse me!” Donald said, running after the man. “You wouldn’t know where I could find the Anchor public house would you?” He asked, as he caught up with the stranger and fell easily into his stride.

  “Aye… I’m off there now. Perhaps you’d like to come with me and you can buy me a tot of rum for my troubles.”

  “Troubles? What troubles would those be?” Donald asked inquisitively. He had no problem in buying the man a drink…in fact had he not suggested it first, he was going to do exactly the same in exchange for a chat.

  “Well you look like a man searching for answers and I thought that maybe I could supply them.”

  From the outside the Anchor looked much like many other pubs. The walls were painted a garish pink and the
front elevation was adorned with a plethora of tubs and hanging baskets. Inside the landlord had made a determined effort to keep the ambience quintessentially old Cornish and like its name suggested the hostelry was decorated as a homage to seafarers old and new. The walls were decked with sepia photographs of old trawlers and crusty fishermen who all seemed to be sat around repairing their fishing gear. Nets and lobster pots hung from the blackened rafters and the wooden floor was lucky if it saw a brush once a week, let alone a mop.

  With scant regard for the comfort of his lounge bar clientele, the landlord had spared every expense by forming tables out of old wooden barrels, around which solid wooden chairs sat waiting for unsuspecting visitors. The only exception was the large alcove in the lounge bar, which came resplendent with a refectory table and cushioned chairs… normally out of bounds to the casual drinker, it was the reserved for special parties, which on the first Monday in each month just happened to be the Padstow Ladies Lunch Club.

  Walking into the dim interior, the elderly sailor took the left hand door, which led directly into the even less salubrious tap room. This was a place for serious drinkers and workers, who after a long stint at sea or a hard night’s fishing were ready to down pints without the need to change out of their fishy Sowesters or salt encrusted polo-necked sweaters. A welcoming fire glowed red in the small grate and the overpowering aroma of seaweed and fish reminded Donald instantly of the beach at Cromarty.

  “It’s the bloody mother’s union.” The elderly sailor carped, as another piercing shriek shook the pub’s glassware. “You’ve hit lucky today.” Without waiting for a reply and catching Donald slightly off guard, he slammed his hand down repeatedly on the bar top to attract the attention of the landlord. “Pint for me Jim and this chap’s paying.” He added pulling out one of the two well-worn bar stools.

  “I’ll have the same please.” Donald added quickly before the landlord disappeared.

  “I’d not have taken you for a beer man… definitely more a lager drinking, I’d have thought.” The stranger added, sounding more surprised than he’d meant to.

  “Right drink for the right occasion, wouldn’t you agree…” Donald replied, suddenly realising that the normal polite convention of introductions had been overlooked in their haste to seek out the sanctuary of the taproom. “We’ve not been properly introduced.” He announced changing tack and offering his hand. “I’m Donald.”

  Instead of grabbing hold of Donald’s hand in a friendly gesture of welcome, the man picked up the pint of beer, which had just been placed in front of him and took a long draught of the dark brown bitter. Carefully replacing the half empty glass on the bar, he knowingly wiped his moustache with his left hand and took hold of Donald’s with his right hand.

  “Admiral Reginald Perringore retired, at your service.” He announced with a stiff upper lip and a half-cocked Royal Navy salute. Then without another word he took out his Sherlock Holmes style pipe and pushed it into the corner of his mouth, where it sat perfectly nestled into the small indentation between his lips.

  “Don’t worry, the bowl’s empty but it helps me cope without my tobacco. Bloody silly law anyway… wouldn’t have stood for it when I was in the service. God knows, I think it was only a pipe that got me through those long night watches. I can’t imagine standing on the bridge of my old destroyer without clouds of smoke billowing from my pipe… sometimes I reckon I put up more smoke than appeared out of the ship’s stack.” The old sea dog took an imaginary draw on the pipe and then used it to prod Donald’s chest. “So come on, what do you want to know?”

  “Well this might seem a stupid question but have you ever seen me before?” Donald asked hopefully.

  “No, I don’t believe I have and if you don’t mind me saying Donald it’s more strange than stupid.” The admiral caught the attention of the landlord and ordered two more pints, whilst Donald took the opportunity of a lull in their drinking to explain how he came to be in the town asking such an unusual questions of a complete stranger and how he was searching for answers about his past and who he might be.

  “Well it’s a right rum tale Donald, I’ll give you that but after all the weird events that have happened in this neck of the woods over the past months nothing really surprises me anymore.” The admiral looked round the deserted bar, as he carefully contemplated his next question. He knew it didn’t pay to stick your nose into other people’s business, especially when your own wasn’t so squeaky clean.

  “So you reckon that the only connection you might have to the town could be some card that came from Patrick Fitzgerald’s hotel and it’s possible that Fitzgerald’s helicopter was the means by which you apparently ended up in Scotland… Not much to go on is it?” He said scratching his head. “Sounds more like a John Buchan adventure novel than anything resembling the truth… if you don’t mind me saying.”

  Donald’s face remained stoically impassive… for whilst he’d never heard of John Buchan, even he had to agree that his story did sound far-fetched.

  “Well maybe that’s a little harsh.” Admiral Perringore admitted begrudgingly, after another moment of awkward silence. “I’ve witnessed goings-on round here recently that defy logic and reason.”

  “Like what?” Donald shuffled uncomfortably on the bar stool as his curiosity outweighed his scepticism.

  “Well I was loaded to the gunnels after a little trip to France...” The admiral touched the end of his nose with his index finger and winked knowingly. Unsure if he could trust his new drinking partner but knowing it was too late to stop. He pulled the barstool closer and beckoned Donald to do the same. “… anyway I’d had a little too much grog, so decided to drop anchor out in the bay and wait for first light. We’ve got a right miserable harbour master who takes a dim view of anyone sailing under the influence… bloody stupid but he’s a stickler for rules and regulations. Well, I’d just turned in for the night when I was disturbed by the most thunderous roar… knocked me clean out of my bunk it did. Of course, by the time I’d righted myself and got out on deck, all I could see was some dark shape disappearing out to sea. To tell you the truth, in the moonlight it looked like a flying shed or house… Explain that if you can?” He downed the rest of his pint and held up his glass for a refill. “It had no lights on it, nothing… just a black box, flying out to sea.”

  The shrill voice was unmistakably that of Elsie Trubshaw. A voice, which moments later was followed by a chorus laughter that was as excruciating ear-piercing as it was loud. Donald froze in his tracks and was in two minds as to whether he should shrink back behind the end of the bar and buy another pint for the admiral or make his presence known and offer his landlady a drink… by way of a belated apology.

  The sensible move would have just been to buy a round of drinks for them both and then make a hasty, discreet retreat, but a voice in his head told Donald that he might learn more in the lounge bar, talking to the lunching ladies of Padstow than running away or staying in the tap room talking to the admiral, who although very sociable would soon be so inebriated as to be even more incomprehensible than he already appeared to be… flying metal sheds indeed Donald mused.

  “I’m just popping next door Reginald.” Donald explained, as he edged passed a couple of tap room regulars towards the etched glass door that separated the two bars.

  “Make sure you come back Donald, I’ll be here until the Last Dog Watch and I’ll ask around… you know to see if anyone has mislaid you!”

  As he pushed his way through the swinging glass door, Donald wondered when exactly the Last Dog Watch was but more importantly what state the admiral would be by the time he reached it, especially if he carried on conning drinks out of visitors and sailors at the same rate. As for himself, after downing the three pints in quick succession, he was now even more thankful for Mrs Trubshaw’s generously proportioned breakfast, which he guessed must have lined the inside of his stomach with an impermeable barrier of grease… either that or… the thought stopped him in his tra
cks and like he had so many times since waking up from the darkness of his coma Donald wondered about his past. Could it be possible that he’d been a hardened drinking in whatever life he’d previously had or perhaps worse was the thought that he might just have been nothing more than an ordinary, boring person who might feel tipsy smelling an empty vodka bottle.

  Christ he mused, as he burst into the lounge bar, being dull would be worse than finding out he was a mass murderer… at least killers were never labelled as boring.

  “Donald! Yoo-hoo over here! Donald!” Elise Trubshaw waved and shouted over the general hubbub of the bar’s noise. Whatever else she might be, Elsie wasn’t one to hold a grudge, especially when there might be a chance of a free drink.

  “Mrs Trubshaw… sorry Elsie… how was your lunch?” He asked, as his brain baulked at the first fence but his legs ignored the rest of his body and galloped towards the group of women who had all congregated around the large table, which occupied pride of place in the Anchor’s private booth.

  “Ladies, this is the young man I’ve told you about. Donald… Gladys there runs the local florists, she’s been asked by Mr Fitzgerald to supply all the flowers for his wedding.”

  “Really.” Donald pulled out the spare chair and sat down before suddenly realising his rudeness. “Sorry ladies… can I get anyone a drink?”

  As Donald handed over the money, he wondered how it was that six women, who were the wrong side of sixty could drink so many double whiskies, but the landlord’s knowing wink told him he wasn’t the first to be duped and Donald himself doubted that he’d be the last. Whatever coven the women were part of, it certainly wasn’t The Women’s Temperance League.

  “There you go ladies.” Donald said, as he carefully placed the tin tray on the table and watched as the six hands sprang forward like six asp’s tongues and grabbed the six glasses.