The new customer smiled back. He had an agreeable expression and, thickset and sensibly dressed in an old tweed jacket and woollen shirt, had the appearance of a country person himself. But when he spoke Colin couldn’t place the accent. Welsh, maybe, he thought, or a trace of Derbyshire? Colin had family, on his mother’s side, in the Peak District.
‘Thank you. A pint of your special bitter, if you’d be so kind.’
Colin Drover had never lost his pleasure in drawing a pint of really good ale. He was proud of his beer, which he still reckoned king among the alcoholic beverages. People nowadays went overboard for wine, but in Colin Drover’s view you couldn’t beat a decent pint of real ale. A solid no-nonsense beer drinker was always welcome in the Stag and Badger.
He drew the beer to a foaming head and set it down delicately on the bar where the foam rocked and then slopped gently over the glass’s side. The man on the other side of the bar treated the drink with equal care, lifting the glass to his lips to sip the dark gold liquor beneath the creamy rim and Colin Drover watched, anxious to see how his beer went down.
The stranger sipped and sighed, and the landlord of the Stag and Badger sighed too with vicarious enjoyment. ‘Nothing like a good pint, I always say,’ he remarked with the subdued enjoyment that a satisfactory sale always brought.
‘Nothing like it, except perhaps another one!’ the stranger promisingly agreed. He seemed a self-sufficient sort, not chatty, but not one of your gloomy types either. He sat quietly absorbing the atmosphere, his eyes half lidded over as if to keep a veil over his thoughts. Not the kind to give much away but could make a valuable customer, was Colin Drover’s conclusion as he forced himself back to the kitchen to take up the cudgels again with Paula.
The newcomer looked about him, apparently taking in his surroundings. The inn was prosperous-looking: mahogany fittings, brass lights, and wallpaper with a leafy National Trust motif in the restaurant area, where tables were set out for dinner guests. It was in this part of the pub, where the stranger was sitting, that a few stools were available for the more elevated drinkers. But it seemed that the stranger did not include himself in this category for after another sip of beer he slid down and made his way round to the public bar, just as a thin young man with an earring and a closefitting woolly cap came through the door.
The young man took up a place as if this was a regular perch. Luke Weatherall was a poet, who comforted or rewarded himself, depending on the day’s output, most evenings about this time. This particular evening was one for comfort – his long, narrative poem, based on a Creation myth of the North American Indians, had stuck fast. Luke had pinned the sheet of paper he had covered in useless stanzas to the stud wall of his room – in Lavinia Galsworthy’s barn conversion just outside the village, where Luke rented a studio flat – and thrown darts at it before making his way down the hill to the Stag and Badger. It was at times like this that Luke wondered if he mightn’t have done better to choose the other Indians for his poem – the Eastern ones – about whom there was more known and less room for artistic confusion.
‘Evening, there,’ he said to the man who now came and sat beside him. Luke had a friendly nature, but he also hoped to have his mind taken off the worries of creation.
The other man acknowledged the greeting with a slight nod of his head and for half a second there flashed across Luke’s mind an image of a mountain lake in which there was perfectly reflected a pellucid gentian sky. Perhaps the stanzas hadn’t been so bad, after all.
‘Golightly’s the name. What can I get you?’
‘Hey, thanks, man. A bitter’d be great.’
The stranger waved a hand at the barmaid, a slight girl with long red hair demurely caught back in a velvet band.
Mr Golightly, who liked all prettiness, gave an affable glance in her direction and ordered. ‘How’s the weather been round here?’ he enquired, showing he was a thoroughbred Englishman and knew what bar talk entailed.
The girl set down the glasses so that not a drop slopped over the rim on to the polished surface of the bar.
‘Middling only, there’s been terrible rain but there’s been some God days, too.’
‘She means the odd sunny one,’ explained Luke, alive to the dangers of social exclusion.
But his concern for his new acquaintance was unnecessary, as once again Mr Golightly gave his accommodating smile. ‘Ah, yes,’ he agreed, ‘I know those!’
He seemed disinclined to chat further, so Luke turned to the back of the newspaper, which was kept for the customers, and started in on the crossword. The North American myth of Creation had cruelly reduced his circumstances; the only chance of a paper was when he walked down in the evening to the Stag.
The door opened again, letting in the cleansing draught of a March wind and an apricot spaniel dog who trotted ahead of her owner. Sam Noble, the former film-maker, was also a regular at the pub. There was no need for him to speak his order and a gin and tonic was wordlessly laid before him by the red-headed barmaid.
Sam hesitated a moment as if unsure whether in betraying curiosity he mightn’t betray rather more, and then ostentatiously sat himself on the other side of Mr Golightly. ‘Evening,’ he said. ‘Visiting these parts?’
The question was unnecessary since he had witnessed Mr Golightly’s arrival at Spring Cottage earlier that afternoon. Perhaps Mr Golightly guessed this. In any case, he merely agreed that he was staying in the area.
‘In the village, is it?’ Sam asked. It was part of his social ritual to pretend to know at once more and less than he really did about his neighbours. ‘Holiday?’ he asked again.
But Sam’s project of enquiry was doomed, as all the other did was renew his opaque smile. He appeared more taken by the spaniel, who had sidled up and was rubbing her parts seductively against his boot.
‘Nice dog you’ve got there. Bitch, is she?’
‘Daphne, yes,’ agreed Sam, slightly affronted that his pet was making more impact than himself. But then the newcomer didn’t know about the Palme d’Or. Time enough to bring that up later. ‘Named for my aunt,’ he added. ‘My mother was a twin and lost her sister when she was born. Nowadays it would count as trauma.’ He was quietly proud of the tragedy which hung over the family psyche.
But even the account of this disaster did not disturb the newcomer’s humour. ‘Ah,’ he agreed, ‘it would, I suppose.’ He spoke as if he might have added that in his day they saw such matters differently – life and death, his demeanour seemed to suggest, were not so important that they should interrupt a quiet pint.
Sam Noble, sensing that conversation was drained dry, turned to the man who had approached the bar to ask for ‘twenty Lambert and Butlers’.
Jackson, the so-called ‘boyfriend’ of Paula out-the-back, was Great Calne’s handyman, though ‘handy’ was hardly the word to describe his skills. Residents of the village would frequently ask, on the matter of Jackson, why on earth they bothered – something of an existential question, as Jackson, like most who work in the building trade, dealt in promises of doubtful validity. No one in their right mind seriously believes a builder when he tells you he will be with you next Wednesday; certainly not when accompanied by the rider, ‘on the dot of nine’. As all the world knows, to a builder ‘next Wednesday’ means in a couple of months if you’re lucky, and no man or woman born and bred in Britain would seriously count on it being otherwise.
Jackson, however, took this licence to extremes, interpreting ‘next Wednesday’ to mean as much as a couple of years off. Nor, when he finally arrived to do a job, could the results be said to be satisfactory. He had set up old Emily Pope’s electric shower, down in Spring Cottage – in the days before it was let to holidaymakers – so that the first time she used it a jolt of electric current went through her naked body which people said had very likely