outside and ever ready to talk to strangers about the good old days, i.e. when the tankards they were nursing still had beer in them. And the form was that you filled them up with cheap ale and got a ‘Well, thank you, kind sir’, and quite possibly little bubbles of information about who had been seen where doing what and with whom and when, all grist to the copper’s mill.
But the expressions on these three changed when another of them whispered hurriedly to his cronies. They pushed themselves back on the wooden seat as if trying to make themselves inconspicuous while still clasping the empty flagons because, well, you never knew. A sign over the door proclaimed that this was the Goblin’s Head.
Opposite the pub was a large open space laid, as they say, to grass. A few sheep grazed on it and towards the far end was a large stack of wood like wicker hurdles, the purpose of which Vimes could not guess. He was, however, familiar with the term ‘village green’, although he had never seen one. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t very big on greens.
The pub smelled of stale beer. This helped as a bulwark against temptation, although Vimes had been clean for years, and could face the occasional sherry at official events, because he hated the taste of it anyway. The smell of antique beer had the same effect. By the pitiful light of the tiny windows Vimes made out an elderly man industriously polishing a tankard. The man looked up at Vimes and gave him a nod, the basic nod which is understood everywhere as meaning ‘I see you, you see me, it’s up to you what happens next’, although some publicans can put an inflection on a nod which also manages to convey the information that there might just be a two-foot length of lead piping under the counter should the party of the second part want to start anything, as it were.
Vimes said, ‘Do you serve anything that isn’t alcoholic?’
The barman very carefully hung the tankard on a hook over the bar and then looked directly at Vimes and said, without rancour, ‘Well, you see, sir, this is what we call a pub. People gets stuffy about it if I leaves out the alcohol.’ He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment and went on, uncertainly, ‘My wife makes root beer, if that takes your fancy?’
‘What kind of root?’
‘Beetroot, as it happens, sir. It’s good for keeping you regular.’
‘Well, I’ve always thought of myself as a regular kind of person,’ said Vimes. ‘Give me a pint – no, make that half a pint, thanks.’
There was another nod and the man disappeared briefly behind the scenes and came back with a large glass overflowing with red foam. ‘There you go,’ he said, putting it carefully on the bar. ‘We don’t put it in pewter because it does something to the metal. This one is on the house, sir. My name is Jiminy, landlord of the Goblin’s Head. I dare say I know yours. My daughter is a maid at the big house, and I treat every man alike, the reason being that the publican is a friend to any man with money in his pockets and also, if the whim takes him, perhaps even to those who temporarily find themselves stony broke, which does not, at the moment, include them three herberts outside. The publican sees all men after a couple of pints, and sees no reason to discriminate.’
Jiminy winked at Vimes, who held out his hand and said, ‘Then I’ll happily shake the hand of a republican!’
Vimes was familiar with the ridiculous litany. Every man who served behind a bar thought of himself as one of the world’s great thinkers and it was wise to treat him as such. After the handshake he added, ‘This juice is pretty good. Rather tangy.’
‘Yes, sir, my wife puts chilli peppers in it, and celery seed to make a man think that he’s drinking something with bones in.’
Vimes leaned on the counter, inexplicably at peace. The wall over the bar was hung with the heads of dead animals, particularly those possessed of antlers and fangs, but it came as a shock
But the expressions on these three changed when another of them whispered hurriedly to his cronies. They pushed themselves back on the wooden seat as if trying to make themselves inconspicuous while still clasping the empty flagons because, well, you never knew. A sign over the door proclaimed that this was the Goblin’s Head.
Opposite the pub was a large open space laid, as they say, to grass. A few sheep grazed on it and towards the far end was a large stack of wood like wicker hurdles, the purpose of which Vimes could not guess. He was, however, familiar with the term ‘village green’, although he had never seen one. Ankh-Morpork wasn’t very big on greens.
The pub smelled of stale beer. This helped as a bulwark against temptation, although Vimes had been clean for years, and could face the occasional sherry at official events, because he hated the taste of it anyway. The smell of antique beer had the same effect. By the pitiful light of the tiny windows Vimes made out an elderly man industriously polishing a tankard. The man looked up at Vimes and gave him a nod, the basic nod which is understood everywhere as meaning ‘I see you, you see me, it’s up to you what happens next’, although some publicans can put an inflection on a nod which also manages to convey the information that there might just be a two-foot length of lead piping under the counter should the party of the second part want to start anything, as it were.
Vimes said, ‘Do you serve anything that isn’t alcoholic?’
The barman very carefully hung the tankard on a hook over the bar and then looked directly at Vimes and said, without rancour, ‘Well, you see, sir, this is what we call a pub. People gets stuffy about it if I leaves out the alcohol.’ He drummed his fingers on the bar for a moment and went on, uncertainly, ‘My wife makes root beer, if that takes your fancy?’
‘What kind of root?’
‘Beetroot, as it happens, sir. It’s good for keeping you regular.’
‘Well, I’ve always thought of myself as a regular kind of person,’ said Vimes. ‘Give me a pint – no, make that half a pint, thanks.’
There was another nod and the man disappeared briefly behind the scenes and came back with a large glass overflowing with red foam. ‘There you go,’ he said, putting it carefully on the bar. ‘We don’t put it in pewter because it does something to the metal. This one is on the house, sir. My name is Jiminy, landlord of the Goblin’s Head. I dare say I know yours. My daughter is a maid at the big house, and I treat every man alike, the reason being that the publican is a friend to any man with money in his pockets and also, if the whim takes him, perhaps even to those who temporarily find themselves stony broke, which does not, at the moment, include them three herberts outside. The publican sees all men after a couple of pints, and sees no reason to discriminate.’
Jiminy winked at Vimes, who held out his hand and said, ‘Then I’ll happily shake the hand of a republican!’
Vimes was familiar with the ridiculous litany. Every man who served behind a bar thought of himself as one of the world’s great thinkers and it was wise to treat him as such. After the handshake he added, ‘This juice is pretty good. Rather tangy.’
‘Yes, sir, my wife puts chilli peppers in it, and celery seed to make a man think that he’s drinking something with bones in.’
Vimes leaned on the counter, inexplicably at peace. The wall over the bar was hung with the heads of dead animals, particularly those possessed of antlers and fangs, but it came as a shock
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