If Only They Could Talk

by Ian Walker

  By eight o’clock, it was obvious that things were starting to get raucous. Sarah and I had long since performed our final duty by starting off the first dance. So we got in our car and quietly went home. Well, it was meant to be qui­etly except that Sprout and Herman had tied all manner of things to the rear bumper, including brass barrel rings, a stainless steel brewery bucket and a couple of empty beer crates. It took me another twenty minutes to untie them before we could finally set off.

  It only took us five minutes to get home and I dutifully carried Sarah over the threshold and kissed her once we were safely inside. As soon as we were on the top floor I also carried her through the door to our new flat.

  I took her straight to the bedroom where I was surprised to discover a hopsack laid out in the middle of the bed.

  “Bloody Sprout and Herman,” I said to her and we both started laughing. Then I kissed her again.

  “You know that this is the moment I’ve been waiting for since we went to the hop store together when we were teenagers.”

  “I know,” she replied. “I hope it will be worth the wait.”

  With that we both stripped off and climbed into bed lux­uriating in our Egyptian cotton sheets.

  Finally, I was about to lose my virginity.

  How was it?

  Well to be truthful, it was a bit of an anti-climax or to be more accurate a bit of a quick climax. It certainly was not as memorable as that first evening in the hop store. Personally I put it down to the stress of the day. Still at least I was no longer a virgin and I had the rest of my life to improve my technique starting with our honeymoon. Father had paid for us to spend four nights at the Hotel Bristol in Le Touquet and the two of us were off to France in the morning. It was to be the start of a long and happy life with Sarah. Or so I thought at the time.

  Chapter 12

  “So what do you think we should do with all of these?” asked Nigel.

  “I don’t want to appear hard-hearted,” Molly replied. “But you know what I’m going to say.”

  “Okay, okay. But it won’t hurt if I just keep one photo. This one of the family has got mum, dad, granddad and great granny on it. I’m not going to throw that one away. Maybe Emma will want one as well.”

  It was at this point that Molly had second thoughts.

  “All right why don’t we take all the photos home so that Emma and Ralph can look through them with us at the weekend. We will probably still end up throwing the major­ity of them away, but it will be fun to go through them all together.”

  Nigel agreed and fetched a large cardboard box to put the photos in. However, the cards, telegrams and piece of wedding cake weren’t given a similar stay of execution and they all went straight into one of the black bags.

  Finally, they were down to the last case, which Nigel opened and was pleased to discover that this time it didn’t contain anything personal. Instead it was filled with loads of old papers concerning the brewery’s tied estate, including invoices, plans and drawings regarding proposed refurbishments. It also contained the original designs for the George Stephenson pub next door.

  *******

  Sarah had never been abroad before. She thought Le Touquet was wonderful, like a chic and sophisticated ver­sion of Skegness. The two of us loved walking along the seafront and visiting the array of small shops in the town centre. We’d driven to Le Touquet by car and Sarah was determined to fill it with as many goods as she possibly could. She mainly bought things for the flat like bed sheets, ornaments and saucepans.

  The latter was a bit premature since we didn’t have a kitchen of our own, but Sarah said she wanted to start stor­ing things for when we got our new house. My wife was such a keen shopper. I was glad that customs restrictions had meant that we could only take £50 worth of traveller’s cheques with us when we left the country.

  The food in Le Touquet took a bit of getting used to, as it was very different to what we ate back in the UK. Personally, I was a meat and two veg man and the only sauces I usually had with my meals were made by HP or Heinz. Sarah said she liked the meals we had in France, but I wasn’t keen on all those veloutés and béchamels. Even when I discovered that jus meant gravy and crème anglaise meant custard, they still didn’t taste like they did back home.

  In spite of the food we still had a wonderful honeymoon. But all too soon it was time to return to Chesterfield and go back to work.

  By the summer of 1953 I’d been Tied Trade Director for a year and it was obvious to me that things had to change. We owned 35 pubs and the vast majority of these were male boozers. They were spit and sawdust pubs with outside toilets and no facilities for women. Some of them didn’t even have a ladies’ loo. They were dingy and decrepit and the newest of them was over fifty years old.

  Of course the years immediately after the war had seen a major surge in house building in the UK and Chesterfield was no exception in this regard. Rows of Victorian terraces had been demolished and, at the same time, the town was expanding with lots of new estates being built.

  As a consequence, many of our pubs were now in the wrong locations. Also, we were facing increased competition from the local working men’s clubs. Whilst some of these were staunchly men only clubs, the more forward-thinking ones admitted women. Not only that but they had large concert rooms where they put on entertainment. Most of them had billiard rooms. Some even had sports facilities.

  It was clear to me that the world was changing and that in future pubs would have to offer far more than just beer.

  “We do offer more,” said Father when we were having one of our arguments on the subject. “We offer darts, dom­inos and cribbage.”

  “But none of those things appeal to women,” I replied. “So we are missing out on the opportunity posed by half the population.”

  “But women don’t drink beer,” he said, which was his stock response to my argument.

  It was at this point that Rebecca came to my aid.

  “All my friends drink beer, Father. They just don’t drink it in our pubs. Not only that but there are loads of young men who go where we go and they all drink beer as well. It gives them Dutch courage.”

  After reconsidering for a few moments, Father asked me what I wanted to do. I told him that I wanted to close one of our worst performing pubs and transfer the license to a brand-new pub, which we would build close to one of the new housing estates. The main difference between this pub and the rest of our estate was that this outlet would have letting bedrooms and a restaurant. In that respect it would have more in common with an inn or a small hotel than with a traditional pub. There would be nothing for women to fear in this new type of pub and its large windows would make this plain for all to see. It would be the kind of pub that you would be proud to take your wife to.

  Father gave it some thought before enquiring how I was proposing to pay for all of this and which pub I was recom­mending we closed down.

  I told him that the pub I had in mind was the Travellers Rest in Cutthorpe as it was now only selling four barrels per week, the lowest volume of all our 35 pubs. Furthermore, it could easily be converted into a private house and it still left us with one other pub in the village.

  Where funding was concerned I said that we’d probably get a decent price for the delicensed Travellers Rest and that we could borrow the rest from the bank.

  “But I had my first ever pint in the Travellers Rest, and Frank Hargreaves, the tenant, has been with us for forty years,” Father protested. “Surely there must be a better can­didate for your proposal than that?”

  “Frank Hargreaves is 72 years old and wants to retire,” I replied. “In fact, he’d have retired years ago if we could find a new tenant to take over from him. But the pub is doing so little trade it is difficult for anyone to make a living out of it. Also, the private accommodation is awful and the roof leaks.”

  I could tell that Father wasn’t completely convinced, but I left him to mull the whole thing over. Afterwards I thanked Rebecc
a for backing me up.

  “That’s the least I can do,” she said. “Somebody has to drag this company into the twentieth century.”

  She then went rather quiet before adding. “Actually Miles, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. Dirk and I are going out together.”

  “So you’ve got a boyfriend, about time if you ask me. Do I know this Dirk fellow?”

  “Of course you do, it’s your friend Dirk Friedrich.”

  “What, Herman?” I replied.

  To say that I was astonished by my sister’s announcement was an understatement. I hadn’t even realised that the two of them fancied each other. Also I’d called him Herman for so long that I had forgotten what his Christian name was. After all I’d never called him Dirk when we were at school or even after we’d left for that matter. He was Herman the German, always had been and always would be. Dildo Duggins had seen to that.

  I didn’t know whether to congratulate my sister or what to say to her. The fact that she and Herman were romanti­cally involved had come as a complete surprise to me.

  In the end I just joked by saying, “Hey, you mustn’t let him take you to his dad’s shed on the allotments.”

  With that she went crimson and I realised that I had well and truly put my foot in it.

  “No, I’m really pleased for both of you,” I said trying to avoid my sister’s embarrassed look. “How long have you been going out with him? Is it serious?”

  “We’ve been together since your wedding and it is pretty serious. He’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Bloody hell, when are you going to tell Father?” I asked her.

  “I was waiting for the right moment,” she replied.

  “Bloody hell,” I said for a second time. “Still I guess you’ll get a fantastic engagement ring, with him being a jeweller.”

  The following week two things happened. Firstly, Herman came around to ask my father for Rebecca’s hand in marriage. Father could hardly object as she was 22 and Herman was an upstanding member of the Chesterfield Chamber of Commerce, having taken over the running of the shop from his father the previous May.

  Secondly, Father approved my idea for the new pub. He made it clear to me that it was only a trial and said we would decide whether or not it was a success after the pub had been trading for a year.

  We closed the Travellers Rest and Frank went to live in a local almshouse. I had several options for where the new pub was to be built, but eventually chose a site in Newbold. We sold the delicensed pub to a local builder who converted it into a detached house and we transferred the licence to the new pub.

  I had already decided that it was going to be called the George Stephenson after one of Chesterfield’s most famous former residents. So we leaked the news to the Derbyshire Times, which got us a bit of free publicity.

  One of the reasons why I was so keen on the site in Newbold, apart from the fact that it was on a main road close to a new estate, was that the plot of land we had bought was bigger than we needed for the pub. As a result, we were also able to build a three-bedroomed detached house next door and got a good price for the job since we used the same builder as we used for the pub.

  Sarah was overjoyed when I told her that we were going to live in a brand-new house. If she had to live under the same roof as my father for another year, she thought she might end up strangling him.

  Of course we’d always planned to move into a new house. This was one of the promises I’d made to her when we were discussing getting married. Despite this, she was beginning to get restless and on one occasion she even accused me of going back on my word.

  She’d never really liked living in the flat, as it was only two rooms and a bathroom on the top floor of my father’s house. There was no kitchen, no dining room and we didn’t have our own front door. Now at last we would have our own place, somewhere we could really call home, some­where we could have some privacy.

  The new house would have all the modern facilities such as a washing machine and a refrigerator. It would also have a parquet floor in the living room, a modern fitted bath­room and a garage for my company car, which Father had provided me with when I became a director.

  The house was completed a few days before the pub and the two of us moved in at the start of May 1954. Two weeks later, the George Stephenson opened and its first function was to host Herman and my sister’s wedding reception.

  It was a happy time for all of us except for my father. Our family home, which had for so long been filled with shouts and laughter, had now gone quiet. My father and my grandmother were the only two occupants still living there.

  The George Stephenson was a success and I was keen to build more pubs like it. Father, however, was less keen. Although the George Stephenson was trading well, much of the turnover came from food and from the letting bed­rooms. If you judged it purely on beer turnover, it was less than double that of the Travellers Rest, after what had been a massive investment on our behalf.

  Father’s argument was that our main priority was to keep the mash tun at the brewery full, as we were a brewer first and foremost. He told me that he could have sold more beer just by buying an extra pub and it would have been a lot cheaper for us.

  My argument was that we also made money from the sale of wines, spirits and soft drinks. In addition to this, we could charge a higher rent for a pub with a higher turnover. But Father had made his decision. There would be no more pubs like the George Stephenson.

  I felt that my father was wrong and that he couldn’t see that the world was changing. However, he was the Managing Director as well as the company Chairman and so had the final say about everything. That wouldn’t always be the case, of course, as he was now in his sixties and would soon be looking to take more of a back seat. Things would be different once I took over from him. So I decided to take the plans for the George Stephenson home with me. After all, they would be the blueprint for our new pub estate once I was in charge of the business.

  Chapter 13

  “That’s it,” said Molly. “We’ve finally cracked it.”

  The second bedroom was now completely cleared out except for the furniture.

  “What about the pictures?” asked Nigel. “We’ve also for­gotten about the pictures on the walls of the first bedroom.”

  “I suppose that most of them will be prints,” Molly replied. She wandered over and took one of the pictures off the wall revealing a load of cobwebs where it had been hanging. “Mind you this one looks as if it’s oil on canvas and looks as if it’s quite well painted.”

  “I’m no art expert, but I doubt if Uncle Miles’s taste in pictures will fetch much at auction though,” Nigel replied.

  “You never know,” continued Molly whilst still looking at the picture in her hands. “This one might be worth a few quid as it depicts the marketplace in Chesterfield. Somebody local might want it.”

  In total, there were three pictures in the second bedroom and four in the first. Nigel and Molly carefully removed them and took them downstairs before putting them on the auction pile.

  *******

  By 1955, Sarah and I had been married for two years. If I said that the marriage was going well I would be lying.

  Firstly, our sex life wasn’t the wonderful thing that I’d always thought it would be and secondly, Sarah was spend­ing far too much money. I didn’t mind so much the things she bought for the house, such as a top of the range black box record player and an expensive Persian rug. It was more the amount she spent on clothing and jewellery that con­cerned me.

  We’d had fitted wardrobes built just to house all her pur­chases. She’d bought so many dresses that she could go for an entire month without wearing the same one twice. In fact, the number she now owned was only exceeded by the number of pairs of shoes she’d bought.

  As for jewellery, I jokingly told her that only the Duchess of Windsor owned more than she did, which went down like a lead balloon.

  It wasn’t as if we
went out that much. When we did, it was usually to trade related events such as the Chesterfield and District Licenced Victuallers annual dinner. In fact, she used to go out with her friend Lydia far more than she did with me.

  The whole thing came to a head in October 1955 when she and Lydia went to see a play at the Civic Theatre.

  “I remember the days when you and I used to go to the theatre together,” I said to her.

  “But we didn’t really go to see the play,” she replied. “That was back when we were courting. Things are different now. Besides which, you don’t really like the theatre do you?”

  “Too right things are different now,” I replied. “And yes, I do like the theatre now that you come to mention it.”

  She didn’t continue the argument, she merely picked up her handbag, one of several she now owned, and walked out.

  When she returned two and a half hours later, she was carrying a large package under her arm. It was a picture she’d bought from the artist who was exhibiting in the bar of the theatre. I held it up to the light to look at it.

  “It’s not very good,” I announced. “I think I did better paintings than this when I was at infant school. How much did it cost?”

  “Fifty pounds, and you have no taste Miles. Derek the manager tells me that the artist is going to be the next big thing. He’s only here in Chesterfield for a week and this is the only picture he’s painted whilst he’s been here.”

  “How much?” I shouted. I was totally flabbergasted. Fifty pounds was more than one of our draymen earned in a month. Mind you some of them would also drink more than fifty pounds worth of beer in addition to their wages.

  “We aren’t made of money,” I went on. “You are going to have to stop your spending, or at the very least, limit it to what you are earning as a teacher.”