Read Online Dark Lies the Island by Kevin Barry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kevin Barry
Ads: Link
‘would be stay home and have a nice sauna.’
‘Same difference,’ sighed John Mosely.
‘Could be looking at 37.2 now,’ said the landlord, taking a flop of sweat from his brow.
Billy Stroud sensed a kindred spirit:
‘Gone up again, has it?’
‘And up,’ said the landlord. ‘My money’s on a 38 before we’re out.’
‘Record won’t go,’ said Billy.
‘Nobody’s said record,’ said the landlord. ‘We’re not going to see a 38.5, that’s for sure.’
‘Brogdale in Kent,’ said Billy. ‘August 10th, 2003.’
‘2.05 p.m.,’ said the landlord. ‘I wasn’t five miles distant that same day.’
Billy was beaten.
‘Loading a van for a divorced sister,’ said the landlord, ramming home his advantage. ‘Lugging sofas in the piggin’ heat. And wardrobes!’
We bowed our heads to the man.
‘What’ll I fetch you, gents?’
A round of Cornish Lightning was requested.
‘Taking the sun?’ enquired the landlord.
‘Taking the ale.’
‘After me own heart,’ he said. ‘’Course ’round here, it’s lagers they’re after mostly. Bloody Welsh.’
‘Can’t beat sense into them,’ said John Mosely.
‘If I could, I would,’ said the landlord, and he danced as a young featherweight might, he raised his clammy dukes. Then he skipped and turned.
‘I’ll pop along on my errands, boys,’ he said. ‘There are rows to hoe and socks for the wash. You’d go through pair after pair this weather.’
He pinched his nostrils closed: what-a-pong.
‘Soon as you’re ready for more, ring that bell and my good wife will oblige. So adieu, adieu …’
He skipped away. We raised eyes. The shade of the lounge was pleasant, the Cornish Lightning in decent nick.
‘Call it a six?’ said Tom N.
Nervelessly we agreed. Talk was limited. We swallowed hungrily, quickly, and peered again towards the pumps.
‘The Lancaster Bomber?’
‘The Whitstable Mule?’
‘How’s about that Mangan’s Organic?’
‘I’d say the Lancaster, all told.’
‘Ring the bell, Everett.’
He did so, and a lively blonde, familiar with her forties but nicely preserved, bounced through from reception. Our eyes went shyly down. She took a glass to shine as she waited our call. Type of lass who needs her hands occupied.
‘Do you for, gents?’
Irish, her accent.
‘Round of the Lancaster, wasn’t it?’ said Everett.
She squinted towards our table, counted the heads.
‘Times six,’ confirmed Everett.
The landlady squinted harder. She dropped the glass. It smashed to pieces on the floor.
‘Maurice?’ she said.
It was Mo that froze, stared, softened.
‘B-B-Barbara?’ he said.
We watched as he rose and crossed to the bar. A man in a dream was Mo. We held our breaths as Mo and Barbara took each other’s hands over the counter. They were wordless for some moments, and then felt ten eyes on them, for they giggled, and Barbara set blushing to the Lancasters. She must have spilled half again down the slops gully as she poured. I joined Everett to carry the ales to our table. Mo and Barbara went into a huddle down the far end of the counter. They were rapt.
Real Ale Club would not have marked Mo for a romancer.
‘The quiet ones you watch,’ said Tom N. ‘Maur
ice
?’
‘Mo? With a piece?’ whispered Everett Bell.
‘Could be they’re old family friends,’ tried innocent Billy. ‘Or relations?’
Barbara was now slowly stroking Mo’s wrist.
‘Four buggerin’ fishwives I’m sat with,’ said John Mosely. ‘What are we to make of these Lancasters?’
We talked ale but were distracted. Our glances cut down the length of the bar. Mo and Barbara talked lowly, quickly, excitedly down there. She was moved by Mo, we could see that plain enough. Again and again she ran her fingers through her hair. Mo was gazing at her, all dreamy, and suddenly he’d got a thumb hooked in the belt-loop of his denims – Mr Suave. He didn’t so much as touch his ale.
Next, of course, the jaunty landlord
‘Same difference,’ sighed John Mosely.
‘Could be looking at 37.2 now,’ said the landlord, taking a flop of sweat from his brow.
Billy Stroud sensed a kindred spirit:
‘Gone up again, has it?’
‘And up,’ said the landlord. ‘My money’s on a 38 before we’re out.’
‘Record won’t go,’ said Billy.
‘Nobody’s said record,’ said the landlord. ‘We’re not going to see a 38.5, that’s for sure.’
‘Brogdale in Kent,’ said Billy. ‘August 10th, 2003.’
‘2.05 p.m.,’ said the landlord. ‘I wasn’t five miles distant that same day.’
Billy was beaten.
‘Loading a van for a divorced sister,’ said the landlord, ramming home his advantage. ‘Lugging sofas in the piggin’ heat. And wardrobes!’
We bowed our heads to the man.
‘What’ll I fetch you, gents?’
A round of Cornish Lightning was requested.
‘Taking the sun?’ enquired the landlord.
‘Taking the ale.’
‘After me own heart,’ he said. ‘’Course ’round here, it’s lagers they’re after mostly. Bloody Welsh.’
‘Can’t beat sense into them,’ said John Mosely.
‘If I could, I would,’ said the landlord, and he danced as a young featherweight might, he raised his clammy dukes. Then he skipped and turned.
‘I’ll pop along on my errands, boys,’ he said. ‘There are rows to hoe and socks for the wash. You’d go through pair after pair this weather.’
He pinched his nostrils closed: what-a-pong.
‘Soon as you’re ready for more, ring that bell and my good wife will oblige. So adieu, adieu …’
He skipped away. We raised eyes. The shade of the lounge was pleasant, the Cornish Lightning in decent nick.
‘Call it a six?’ said Tom N.
Nervelessly we agreed. Talk was limited. We swallowed hungrily, quickly, and peered again towards the pumps.
‘The Lancaster Bomber?’
‘The Whitstable Mule?’
‘How’s about that Mangan’s Organic?’
‘I’d say the Lancaster, all told.’
‘Ring the bell, Everett.’
He did so, and a lively blonde, familiar with her forties but nicely preserved, bounced through from reception. Our eyes went shyly down. She took a glass to shine as she waited our call. Type of lass who needs her hands occupied.
‘Do you for, gents?’
Irish, her accent.
‘Round of the Lancaster, wasn’t it?’ said Everett.
She squinted towards our table, counted the heads.
‘Times six,’ confirmed Everett.
The landlady squinted harder. She dropped the glass. It smashed to pieces on the floor.
‘Maurice?’ she said.
It was Mo that froze, stared, softened.
‘B-B-Barbara?’ he said.
We watched as he rose and crossed to the bar. A man in a dream was Mo. We held our breaths as Mo and Barbara took each other’s hands over the counter. They were wordless for some moments, and then felt ten eyes on them, for they giggled, and Barbara set blushing to the Lancasters. She must have spilled half again down the slops gully as she poured. I joined Everett to carry the ales to our table. Mo and Barbara went into a huddle down the far end of the counter. They were rapt.
Real Ale Club would not have marked Mo for a romancer.
‘The quiet ones you watch,’ said Tom N. ‘Maur
ice
?’
‘Mo? With a piece?’ whispered Everett Bell.
‘Could be they’re old family friends,’ tried innocent Billy. ‘Or relations?’
Barbara was now slowly stroking Mo’s wrist.
‘Four buggerin’ fishwives I’m sat with,’ said John Mosely. ‘What are we to make of these Lancasters?’
We talked ale but were distracted. Our glances cut down the length of the bar. Mo and Barbara talked lowly, quickly, excitedly down there. She was moved by Mo, we could see that plain enough. Again and again she ran her fingers through her hair. Mo was gazing at her, all dreamy, and suddenly he’d got a thumb hooked in the belt-loop of his denims – Mr Suave. He didn’t so much as touch his ale.
Next, of course, the jaunty landlord
Similar Books
