want to burden her with another one. Instead, she smiled politely and thanked the young barmaid who left with a cheery, “Enjoy your meal!”
The cheese and potato pie, one of Lucy's favourite dishes of all time, was absolutely delicious. With huge globs of browned cheddar seasoned with onion and a smattering of herbs, it seemed to melt in her mouth. As she ate she looked around the room. The atmosphere in the bar was different now, not at all like it had been earlier when she'd been alone. The soft yellow glow of the ambient lighting made the place feel warm and homely, especially with the deepening darkness outside pressing against the window. However, again and again she found her gaze pulled back to the framed photograph hanging on the wall. The dead men and the good ship
Edward, Prince of Wales
.
Dale must have caught her attention wavering, and managed to mumble, “Food good,” in between giant mouthfuls of steak and ale pie.
Not knowing if it was a statement or a question, Lucy replied, “Mmmm... fantastic,” as she piled some baked beans onto her fork.
“You know...” Dale said as they he neared the end of his meal, “... I really hope they get more guests soon. This place won't see the year out otherwise, and that would be a shame. They could make a lot of money here if they play it right.”
“Here? But it's in the middle of nowhere.”
Dale cocked his head slightly the way he did when he was about to impart some wisdom. “Because it's a captive market. You just said so yourself. When people come here they pay for the room to start with, but there's nowhere else they can eat so then they end up buying two or three meals per person per day on top. Plus drinks and entertainment. The pool table and all that other stuff wouldn't be free.”
“Well, maybe the article really will help get the word out,” Lucy wasn't comfortable with Dale's use of the word 'captive.' It inferred many things, none of them good.
“I don't think it'll help that much, to be honest. Not unless Sker House is suddenly inundated with students from Solent University who, in case you hadn't noticed, are the only people who read our rag.”
“Yeah, and even then it's debatable how much of it they actually read. If we dumbed-down any more we'd be writing pop-up books.”
“We got into journalism at the wrong time,” Dale grumbled. “Nobody's interested in reading anything unless it's on a computer screen. The media is more popular and accessible than it has ever been before. But traditional print is dying a slow, painful death. Circulation figures are down right across the board.” As if to mourn the current plight of news stand publications, he drained his glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I think rumours of the industry's demise are greatly exaggerated,” Lucy said. “The big media companies still make shit loads of money and most magazines and newspapers are still profitable, they just make two million a year instead of ten million.”
“Yeah, but what about the future? If the decline continues how many of them will still be profitable in ten years? Or even five?”
“Who's to say any of us will still be here in five years? The way the world is going we'll all be dust sooner rather than later.”
Dale tutted. “We've been on the brink of another world war since the fifties. And they said the world was going to end in 1999, when the Millennium Bug was supposed to make all the planes drop out of the sky. And what about 2012 when the Mayan calendar ended? Nothing happened then, either.”
“Now who's the cynical one?” said Lucy.
As they were finishing their meals, Machen the landlord appeared back behind the bar, a huge smile spread across his reddened face. He looked a little unsteady on his feet. If Lucy didn't know better, she'd say he'd been drinking. He said something unintelligible to young Izzy, who shot Lucy and Dale an inquisitive look as she scurried back into the kitchen. Lucy was
The cheese and potato pie, one of Lucy's favourite dishes of all time, was absolutely delicious. With huge globs of browned cheddar seasoned with onion and a smattering of herbs, it seemed to melt in her mouth. As she ate she looked around the room. The atmosphere in the bar was different now, not at all like it had been earlier when she'd been alone. The soft yellow glow of the ambient lighting made the place feel warm and homely, especially with the deepening darkness outside pressing against the window. However, again and again she found her gaze pulled back to the framed photograph hanging on the wall. The dead men and the good ship
Edward, Prince of Wales
.
Dale must have caught her attention wavering, and managed to mumble, “Food good,” in between giant mouthfuls of steak and ale pie.
Not knowing if it was a statement or a question, Lucy replied, “Mmmm... fantastic,” as she piled some baked beans onto her fork.
“You know...” Dale said as they he neared the end of his meal, “... I really hope they get more guests soon. This place won't see the year out otherwise, and that would be a shame. They could make a lot of money here if they play it right.”
“Here? But it's in the middle of nowhere.”
Dale cocked his head slightly the way he did when he was about to impart some wisdom. “Because it's a captive market. You just said so yourself. When people come here they pay for the room to start with, but there's nowhere else they can eat so then they end up buying two or three meals per person per day on top. Plus drinks and entertainment. The pool table and all that other stuff wouldn't be free.”
“Well, maybe the article really will help get the word out,” Lucy wasn't comfortable with Dale's use of the word 'captive.' It inferred many things, none of them good.
“I don't think it'll help that much, to be honest. Not unless Sker House is suddenly inundated with students from Solent University who, in case you hadn't noticed, are the only people who read our rag.”
“Yeah, and even then it's debatable how much of it they actually read. If we dumbed-down any more we'd be writing pop-up books.”
“We got into journalism at the wrong time,” Dale grumbled. “Nobody's interested in reading anything unless it's on a computer screen. The media is more popular and accessible than it has ever been before. But traditional print is dying a slow, painful death. Circulation figures are down right across the board.” As if to mourn the current plight of news stand publications, he drained his glass and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“I think rumours of the industry's demise are greatly exaggerated,” Lucy said. “The big media companies still make shit loads of money and most magazines and newspapers are still profitable, they just make two million a year instead of ten million.”
“Yeah, but what about the future? If the decline continues how many of them will still be profitable in ten years? Or even five?”
“Who's to say any of us will still be here in five years? The way the world is going we'll all be dust sooner rather than later.”
Dale tutted. “We've been on the brink of another world war since the fifties. And they said the world was going to end in 1999, when the Millennium Bug was supposed to make all the planes drop out of the sky. And what about 2012 when the Mayan calendar ended? Nothing happened then, either.”
“Now who's the cynical one?” said Lucy.
As they were finishing their meals, Machen the landlord appeared back behind the bar, a huge smile spread across his reddened face. He looked a little unsteady on his feet. If Lucy didn't know better, she'd say he'd been drinking. He said something unintelligible to young Izzy, who shot Lucy and Dale an inquisitive look as she scurried back into the kitchen. Lucy was
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