Read Online Nowhere Near Milkwood by Rhys Hughes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rhys Hughes
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That’s where all these newfangled rainbows come from. They just don’t make them like they used to...”
I coughed and signalled for a drink, but Hywel ignored me. His voice took on the drone of a wasp caught in a jar that had once held Mrs Owen’s jam: anger mingled with relief. I attempted to win Flann O’Brien over to my side by tapping him on the shoulder, but he was completely absorbed in his Guinness. The TALL STORY tends to be a pub where everybody talks but nobody listens.
“And that’s another thing about your traditional rainbow that your modern ones don’t have,” Hywel continued. “A crock of gold, that’s what! There used to be a crock at the end of every one when I was small. Well do I remember hauling back a big pot in the evenings after a summer downpour. There was never much gold in them though; just an apple, an orange, a few brazil nuts and a penny. But that isn’t the point. We were happy in those days.”
Flann O’Brien finished his pint and remarked that he knew a man who had chased a rainbow all over County Wicklow only to find an old Wellington boot at the end of it. The situation was growing desperate. I realised that drastic action was called for if ever I was to be blessed with a drink. On a sudden impulse, I cried:
“I knew a man who chased a rainbow right here in the city. It happened two years ago, during that heat wave that set tongues a-lolling and eyes a-rolling. We were all waiting for a drop of rain to soothe our fevered brows and eventually a lonely blue cloud answered our prayers. There has never been a sweeter shower or a more magnificent rainbow.”
“Oh yes?” Hywel looked up. I had finally attracted his attention. His fingers flirted with the pump handle of my usual. I licked my lips and sweat stood out on my brow. “Go on,” he said.
“Well it also happened to be the week that the Reptile Circus was in town. Don’t you remember? Dr Slither’s Performing Snakes and Salamanders! Anyway, what occurred was that the reptiles were allowed to splash around in the castle moat to cool down. There were big snapping caimans and crocodiles, enormous pythons and thick tongued monitor lizards. There was even a Komodo Dragon.”
Hywel gave me a cynical look and opened his mouth to resume his conversation with Flann O’Brien. I saw my chance slipping away. In blind panic, I added:
“Well I had this friend who decided to follow this rainbow I mentioned, to see if there really was a crock of gold at the end of it. I told him not to go, but off he went toward the castle. He had to hurry because the rainbow was already beginning to fade.”
Hywel turned back to face me. I had won a reprieve but still had to prove myself. I said:
“This friend of mine finally reached the Castle moat and there, lo and behold, was the end of the rainbow! So he took his shirt and shoes off, placed them neatly on the side, pinched his nose and jumped in. Down into the depths he sank, faster and faster. But he never came up again...”
“Why? Did he find his crock of gold?”
I sighed and shook my head sadly: “Alas no! It wasn’t a Croc after all. It was a ‘Gator.”
Hywel burst into forced laughter and the bar was back in business. I took my pint of dark out into the beer garden and sat on one of the benches next to sleeping truth. That is the trouble with the TALL STORY on Raconteur Road; every time you want a drink you have to tell one.
2: Ghost Holiday
I was sitting in the TALL STORY, listening to one of Hywel’s sombre and unlikely tales, when a thin nervous looking man added a comment of his own. Now there are two things about the TALL STORY that every prospective customer ought to know. The first is that it does not exist; the second is that Hywel must never, under any circumstances, be interrupted.
How he became landlord of a nonexistent pub is a secret that Hywel likes to keep to himself. Indeed, considering his size, strength and (even more importantly) the
I coughed and signalled for a drink, but Hywel ignored me. His voice took on the drone of a wasp caught in a jar that had once held Mrs Owen’s jam: anger mingled with relief. I attempted to win Flann O’Brien over to my side by tapping him on the shoulder, but he was completely absorbed in his Guinness. The TALL STORY tends to be a pub where everybody talks but nobody listens.
“And that’s another thing about your traditional rainbow that your modern ones don’t have,” Hywel continued. “A crock of gold, that’s what! There used to be a crock at the end of every one when I was small. Well do I remember hauling back a big pot in the evenings after a summer downpour. There was never much gold in them though; just an apple, an orange, a few brazil nuts and a penny. But that isn’t the point. We were happy in those days.”
Flann O’Brien finished his pint and remarked that he knew a man who had chased a rainbow all over County Wicklow only to find an old Wellington boot at the end of it. The situation was growing desperate. I realised that drastic action was called for if ever I was to be blessed with a drink. On a sudden impulse, I cried:
“I knew a man who chased a rainbow right here in the city. It happened two years ago, during that heat wave that set tongues a-lolling and eyes a-rolling. We were all waiting for a drop of rain to soothe our fevered brows and eventually a lonely blue cloud answered our prayers. There has never been a sweeter shower or a more magnificent rainbow.”
“Oh yes?” Hywel looked up. I had finally attracted his attention. His fingers flirted with the pump handle of my usual. I licked my lips and sweat stood out on my brow. “Go on,” he said.
“Well it also happened to be the week that the Reptile Circus was in town. Don’t you remember? Dr Slither’s Performing Snakes and Salamanders! Anyway, what occurred was that the reptiles were allowed to splash around in the castle moat to cool down. There were big snapping caimans and crocodiles, enormous pythons and thick tongued monitor lizards. There was even a Komodo Dragon.”
Hywel gave me a cynical look and opened his mouth to resume his conversation with Flann O’Brien. I saw my chance slipping away. In blind panic, I added:
“Well I had this friend who decided to follow this rainbow I mentioned, to see if there really was a crock of gold at the end of it. I told him not to go, but off he went toward the castle. He had to hurry because the rainbow was already beginning to fade.”
Hywel turned back to face me. I had won a reprieve but still had to prove myself. I said:
“This friend of mine finally reached the Castle moat and there, lo and behold, was the end of the rainbow! So he took his shirt and shoes off, placed them neatly on the side, pinched his nose and jumped in. Down into the depths he sank, faster and faster. But he never came up again...”
“Why? Did he find his crock of gold?”
I sighed and shook my head sadly: “Alas no! It wasn’t a Croc after all. It was a ‘Gator.”
Hywel burst into forced laughter and the bar was back in business. I took my pint of dark out into the beer garden and sat on one of the benches next to sleeping truth. That is the trouble with the TALL STORY on Raconteur Road; every time you want a drink you have to tell one.
2: Ghost Holiday
I was sitting in the TALL STORY, listening to one of Hywel’s sombre and unlikely tales, when a thin nervous looking man added a comment of his own. Now there are two things about the TALL STORY that every prospective customer ought to know. The first is that it does not exist; the second is that Hywel must never, under any circumstances, be interrupted.
How he became landlord of a nonexistent pub is a secret that Hywel likes to keep to himself. Indeed, considering his size, strength and (even more importantly) the
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