Paul McCartney's Coat Read online

  I know that I am jealous of my time with you as time has taken so many years from us, and I am sorry for that, it must do your head in sometimes, though I also know that you feel the same.

  Dear Diary,

  I saw her brown eyes in my dreams last night but I saw them as I saw them the first time. Perfect memory.

  Perfect eyes.

  An Inspector Calls

  From the corner of Hesketh Street to the tree lined lane that wound its way towards Grantham's Walk is a swift passage of not more than say, five minutes. Generally a pleasant walk, with trees just the right height waving in the breeze, the traffic here is neither too heavy nor too light. In general suburban terms it could be said that it was pretty much an idyllic area. The houses are generally well moneyed, and if the general area could be said to have any problem whatsoever (and it had to be a little bit of nit - picking, it has to be said), it was a small problem. If a problem at all. If forced to express a derogatory opinion, the general consensus would be that the area was just a little too middle class; a little bit well, twee.

  Which in itself is not really any kind of problem at all. If the worst offence that an erring politician could summon was that he was in most opinions, decidedly middle class, or that the military dictator whose latest grand plan involved a lot of: a) drugs, b) lots of money, and c) a certain amount of neat plutonium sitting around doing nothing much at all somewhere in the general area of the Ukraine, (and not necessarily in that order), and if the worst that could be said of such a dictator was that he was, when all was said and done, a little bit, well...twee... then the world would most certainly be a much better place. There would certainly be a lot more Ikea stores, for certain.

  So, when all is said and one, not a bad area. The trees were nice. The way the sun set just above the crest of the hill as it climbed back towards the town (Strictly May to August - the locals banked on it), all is pretty much as it should have been. Even the lampposts - evenly spaced, cast iron (very old school), were pretty much pillars of good taste.

  Down the hill, towards Cressington Gardens, across the small green and there is the village pub. Much has been written about the place of the modern public house in the role of the community, and much has taken place over the last number of decades to change the role of such a building in society. Amongst other things, the advent of the cheap family car, the rise of the out of town shopping centre, the lures used by the modern public house were many. Cheap food and play areas for the family. Dusty the Clown party bags and endless variations of Pizza and chicken nuggets for the kids. The traps were set, and the public fell into them. So the way went, and so the pub - centre of the community, excluder of children, most women and those financially embarrassed - changed. Or most did.

  Charles Horse, licensee, proprietor and landlord (his preferred title), of the Bucket and Shovel public house thought that all of this, of course, was complete and utter bullshit. Not for him the modern pub with Sunday lunch for eight pounds, the quiz night on a Monday and Wednesday. No Siree, Charlie ran a traditional public house, and that meant darts, pool, a nineteen sixties / country and western music jukebox and no food whatsoever. (Apart of course from crisps, nuts, pork scratching’s and pickled eggs. But they of course, don't really count. (Particularly the pork scratching’s and pickled eggs)). As well as these treats there was always fresh sawdust in the bar once a week (whether it was needed or not), tournaments on a rolling basis for darts, pool and a Race night every last Thursday in the month. Charlie believed in the old values. The good old values. And not necessarily family ones, either.

  From the outside, the pub looked like any other. This was of frequent embarrassment to carloads of distressed parents on sunny summer afternoons. Keen to offload the kids into the nearest play area, stuff themselves with a good old fashioned pub-produced Sunday roast and the kids with either pizza or chicken nuggets, entering into the Bucket and Shovel could be a salutary experience.

  "Excuse me", would stammer a travelling parent, car still outside from where the sound of raucous children could just be heard, "Do you serve Sunday lunch?"

  Such a question posed to Charlie would inevitably lead to a smug grin that didn't so much spread across his face as burst its banks and threaten to flood the entire local area.

  "Food?" would boom Charlie, pausing to lift a glass from above the bar and polish it with his Cellar man’s apron, "Nah," he would pronounce, and that was it. The potential customer would usually stand there waiting for the next bit of the conversation, but it never actually arrived. No directions to the nearest pub that did sell food, no advice on the best route to take; nothing at all, really. Which would inevitably lead to a small-embarrassed silence, and the eventual departure of the slightly disgruntled, if not confused, customer.

  Which most entrepreneurs involved in the management of small businesses would find most odd. But that was the thing with Charlie. It was not that he didn't want to serve customers, or that he did not want to make a decent living. Few people would come to the conclusion after examining Charlie's behaviour that he would love to run a chain of pubs. Simply put, he did. It was his dream. But all of his day dream pubs would be run on the same principles. No food. No kids. No play areas - and definitely no designer beers or wine of the month.

  The brewery representative had given up on Charlie in this and most other areas now, instead concentrating on the merits of various manufacturers’ pickled eggs or scampi fries. It wasn't that Charles Horse didn't want to be successful. It was simply that he didn't want the 20th Century. "Nothing wrong with pubs that have food", he would often comment over the bar to any of his locals who would care to listen. "But not in my pub. Not while I'm the landlord."

  By appearances most people would assess Charlie as surly. (This opinion would usually be arrived at after a conversation that would commence with an uninformed customer approaching the bar, speaking to Charlie and vocalising something along the lines of,

  "Good evening, Proprietor. May I order a White Chablis, a Taboo Spritzer beer with ice and a packet of Bombay Spice to nibble on. Oh, and whilst you're at it, can I have a look at the menu?" Charlie would smile his wide smile and positively boom,

  "We don't do that, I'm afraid."

  "Which one?" would smile the customer, thinking to share some mischievous repartee with the landlord.

  "All of it." Would pronounce Charlie, and the smile would become just a little wider.

  This however, was not the case. He very much believed in the art of giving the punters what they wanted. As long, of course, as what they wanted fell in line with what he was prepared to deliver. This would usually involve some sort of shenanigans to get the potential diner to part with some money for a drink before he told them that the nearest culinary delight they could look forward to was a packet of scampi fries coupled with a small grimy packet that included four Ritz crackers, a Dairy lea cheese slice and a shrivelled pickle onion.

  That Charlie had very little trouble in imparting this information had a great deal to do with his rather imposing physical presence. Charlie would often boast that he very rarely had any trouble of any kind in his pub. The fact that the landlord was six foot three and built like one of the steel barrels that contained his relatively mundane real ales could have had a great deal to do with it. The cellar man’s apron that none of his customers had ever seen him without, also helped reinforce this opinion. To say that Charlie cut a somewhat imposing presence was like saying that mount Everest was a big mountain.

  The Bucket and Shovel was stuck in a veritable Charlie - induced time warp. This revolved around a rather quaint idea of what the local pub should be, and more directly, what it should not be. And the regulars loved him for it. The great thing about a visit to the Bucket and Shovel was that you always knew what to expect. No sudden surprises or arrivals of "beer of the month" to throw you out of your drinking stride. The pub that Charlie ran had very little to offer that could be filed in the cabinet marked, "rare and interesting lif
e enriching experiences", but you did know that you could get a very reasonable price of bitter, and the date of the next race night could be marked very clearly in your social calendar.

  Which meant for a brisk trade. Whilst the more consumer orientated pubs struggled to fill more than a few tables of diners on a Tuesday, Wednesday or even Thursday nights, trade for the Bucket and Shovel stayed at a brisk level for most nights of the week. This had a twofold effect on Charlie's running of the pub. One, it made the weekly order for levels of bitter, lager and other consumables less of a gamble and more of a certainty. The second effect was that it gave Charlie a great deal of leeway with the powers that be at the brewery. In an age in which most hostelries were being converted to “Happy Diners" and the like, Charlie was left very much to his own devices, because basically, his philosophy on the day to day running of the pub made them money. Which suited Charlie - and the brewery - just fine.

  Charlie remembered several years ago when a new area manager was promoted straight from university, and his subsequent visit to the Bucket and Shovel. An inkling of a smile crept to the corners of Charlie's face at the memory of it. The poor man had arrived with suggestions of designer beers, cocktail happy hours and talk of video jukeboxes. He had left rather hurriedly barely twenty minutes later with a serious loss of self-esteem and a very large and ticklish flea in his ear. He had stuck the job out for another three months or so before leaving to bring the concept of designer ginger nut biscuits to the masses, and was by all counts doing very well for himself off it too, thank you very much.

  The fact that the brewery was happy made Charlie very happy indeed. There could be very little wrong with the opinion of the brewery that all in all Charlie was doing a fine job, and was best left to it. Which had the double effect of making Charlie a relatively happy chap as well. So all was well in the Bucket and Shovel. The brewery was happy. The customers were happy. Charlie was happy. Or at least he thought that he was.

  But that was before he found the cigarette lighter.

  Reflecting back on it he began to wonder just how such a small thing could build into such an obsession. But to consider that he would have to go right back to the beginning. A cold October evening, the regional darts final and cheese and pickle sandwiches.

  "It should be cheese and piccalilli, Charlie." Commented Jim, turning his nose up at the buffet sized plate of sandwiches currently doing the rounds at the post darts match finals. To his great pride, the Bucket and Shovel had managed to arrive at the enviable position of overall winners of two of the three competitions for which they qualified. This apparent success however did not put Charlie in the frame of mind for criticism of his post-match buffet.

  "Nonsense." Pronounced Charlie, rubbing his down his cellar man’s apron. (This apparent habit was something Charlie undertook at moments of indecision, but it was not something he personally felt comfortable admitting to. It seemed to Charlie it was perilously close to admitting a weakness.)

  "Cheese should be put with Branston pickle, if it's put with anything at all. Certainly not piccalilli."

  To Charlie, the presence of piccalilli in a post darts bash approached something like foreign cuisine, and he certainly was not having any of that at all. Jim pulled a face, which made Charlie think of the thin end of this particularly cheese shaped wedge and carried on its own little train of "over my dead body" thought. Not for the first time Charlie began to ponder the suitability of Jim to head the darts team. Perhaps time to have a word with Simon about next year's season. True, they had not just pretty much cleared the table of all trophies as run off with the tablecloth as well this year, but piccalilli? Bloody hell! It'd be pizza slices next, and then God knows where you would end up.

  Charlie placed the large plate down on the pub table and made to return to the bar. "It's bloody Branston pickle, Jim" he announced, in a slightly louder voice than was necessary. May as well begin the undermining sooner rather than later he thought to himself, and in thinking so, turned, leaving a slightly red faced Jim contemplating cheese and Branston pickle, and how they would look placed prominently in a messy crown around about Charlie's head. Charlie knew this of course, and paused on the public side of the bar just long enough for the overhead spotlights to bounce reflectively off the dome of his receding hairline. Presenting himself as a target failed to achieve the desired response from Jim. This began with a plate of cheese and Branston pickle sandwiches being placed around his head and ended with the delightful prospect of Jim rolling around in the gutter outside the pub with a heavily gilded darts statue placed unceremoniously up his arse. Disappointed that Jim didn't seem to want to fix it for him, Charlie returned to the bar to scowl at a few more customers.

  Which is when he first noticed the lighter. The bar of the Bucket and Shovel was broadly speaking L -shaped, with the usual arrangement of customers gathering at the crook of the L. The end of the bar was pretty much deserted as usual. This was the end Charlie preferred, where he liked to stand and polish the glasses on his bar apron, and Charlie was as usual unable to decide whether it was because where he stood that made it deserted. Deserted except for the small silver coloured lighter sitting on top of the bar, that is. Charlie picked it up, glancing around, waiting for someone to claim it. Which nobody did. In itself, it was quite an indistinct lighter: flip - top with a small wheel on the side to light the wick.

  Flipping the top open Charlie flicked the wheel to light it, and nothing happened. The flint sparked, for sure. But that was it. No flame. Nothing at all. "Probably out of petrol", thought Charlie out loud, and returned the lighter to the bar, leaving it for someone to claim.

  Which was the end of it until much later after Charlie had locked up and was about to retire to the flat upstairs. The lighter was still there. Picking it up, Charlie went through the same ritual of trying its fit to his hand, flipping the top open and flicking the wheel in an attempt to light it. It is a sad indication of human nature that anyone finding a stray lighter will always attempt these three things. Usually in that order too. Charlie felt a little peeved at the lighters refusal to play ball, and went to place it under the bar just in case anybody claimed it the next day. "Probably left it because it doesn't work", he announced out aloud to the deserted pub as he noticed for the first time the faded writing on the side of the lighter. The metal case was definitely worn smooth, as of with much use. Which made the letters carved into the case very difficult to read. Holding the lighter up to the spotlight he could just make out individual letters, which seemed to spell out the word "Eribus" in an oddly spaced kind of way. Tiring of the thing Charlie placed it behind the bar and retired to bed.

  ***

  Nobody claimed the lighter the next day. Or the day after that. After a week, despite asking all of his regulars, Charlie decided that the lighter was now his property, but not being a smoker himself, he could think of no particular use for it. But still the writing on the lighter continued to baffle him. Many times throughout the day - during those slack moments - he would find himself pulling the lighter from his pocket and holding it up to the light in an attempt to make out the badly defined letters. With no success. All he could make out was the "Eribus" he had managed to define upon his first cursory glance. Yet he had the distinct feeling that there were a few gaps with more letters on the case, that the letters were there, but just out of reach. After examining it carefully after some time he would invariably return it to his pocket until the next slack moment.

  The writing had distracted him for such a while that he had owned the lighter for nearly a month before he tried to light it once again. The flint sparked, but that was all. The lighter plainly refused to ignite, even briefly. The customers of the Bucket and Shovel had to begun to catch on to Charlie's seeming preoccupation with the lighter, and had begun to needle him about it. Having passed it around several of them, the general consensus of opinion was still that the writing was pretty much indecipherable, and that it plainly refused to ignite. So Charlie bought a can of pe
trol fluid and filled it up. Cleaning the noxious liquid from his hands, Charlie flicked the wheel. The lighter sparked, but still did not light. So he replaced the flint. Then the wick. Then emptied the petrol fluid and filled it up again. Then a new flint. Trimmed the wick. Tried again. Replaced the wick. Ignored the catcalls of his customers, "Still not lit that lighter, Charlie? They're only six for a pound at the market. For Christ's sake, go and buy some", and so on. Then back into his pocket for the best part of two days in a serious sulk.

  It was at this point that Charlie began to realise that the lighter was beginning to become a talking point in the pub. Customers would ask him about it, ask to examine the illegible writing once more, attempt to convert it to Latin and so on. Never slow to capitalise on a commercial money spinner - as long as it did not involve piccalilli - Charlie began to parade the lighter more frequently, and cajoled his customers in attempts to get the damned thing to actually light. This culminated in it being sent away for a long month to a specialist Tobacconists in Devizes to get it over-hauled. The lighter returned with a specialist engineers report which happily stated that there was no actual reason why it shouldn't light, except that it didn't seem to want to, and the story of the lighter increased in stature a little upon its return. There was also the strange fact that the lighter didn't seem to be from any known lighter company, Eribus or otherwise, and that its origins remained a complete mystery.

  Which was great news for Charlie - and good for business too. As the notoriety of the lighter grew, Charlie began to realise that it had the potential to be a nice little earner, with more than the occasional visitor calling in to the pub to look at the thing. Which is when Charlie had his master plan. Thinking back on it Charlie's commercial brainwave took place over a particularly dull glass polishing session on one cold and wet November morning. It was a logical extension from keeping the lighter under the bar to keeping it on the bar. Knowing the average customer though, drastic measures were called for. As he never tired of telling anyone in particular who would listen, the average punter to the Bucket and Shovel would take the teeth from out of your head, and probably try to sell them back to you as well. Which went some way towards explaining the long metal chain that attached the small lighter to the bar, preventing its movement over more than three foot in any direction, being shackled to the lighter itself by a small iron clamp.