Perhaps one of the reasons for the dearth of casual drinkers was that the identity of the Crown & Anchor had changed since Ted engaged a chef called Ed Pollack, whose cooking had raised the profile of the pub’s restaurant considerably. In fact, the place was now frequently referred to – in an expression the landlord loathed – as a ‘gastropub’. In its new incarnation, booking was essential, and the busy time had shifted from early evening to dinner. A lot of the local drinkers felt it was no longer the place for a quiet pint.
With Ed in the kitchen, and the bars under the expert management of the pigtailed Polish Zosia, the Crown & Anchor had undoubtedly become ‘a success’. But Ted Crisp didn’t let a detail like that alter his customary lugubrious demeanour. And he would never let the pub’s gentrification affect his wardrobe choices.
As Carole and Jude passed, he was leaning over the bar, talking to a fiftyish man, whose thinning hair was pulled back into a sparse ponytail. The man wore a pale denim jacket, shirt and jeans, clasped with a broad brown leather belt, and scuffed cowboy boots. There was a half-empty pint glass of Guinness in front of him.
‘Ah. Carole,’ said Ted, ‘I don’t think you’ve met …’
‘Hello, KK,’ said Jude.
A little tug of annoyance pulled at Carole’s lower lip. This happened far too often in Fethering, she thought, Jude knowing more people than she did. And Carole had lived there longer. Registering the man’s scruffiness, she reckoned he must be one of the flaky types her neighbour had met through the healing practice.
‘Hi, Jude.’ He got off his bar stool and enveloped her in a huge hug.
‘Good to see you.’ The hug was returned with reciprocal warmth. Carole’s first thought was that this must be another of Jude’s lovers. There had certainly been a good few of them (though not nearly as many as there were in Carole’s imagination).
When she had disengaged herself from the bear hug, Jude said, ‘This is Carole, my neighbour.’
‘Hi.’ The denim-clad creature extended the monosyllable into something long and languid.
‘Oh, I thought you’d know each other,’ said Ted.
‘No, said Carole frostily.
‘KK’s a musician,’ said Jude.
‘Ah,’ said Carole, as if that explained everything.
‘“A wandering minstrel, I …”’ The words, spoken rather than sung, were a surprise. KK’s image was more Bruce Springsteen than Gilbert & Sullivan.
Ted Crisp picked up his cue, ‘Available for every kind of function – birthdays, christenings, bar mitzvahs, weddings, divorces … You name it, KK’s up for the gig.’
‘Yeah,’ the musician agreed. ‘Up for anything that pays the bills … Though there’s not much work around at the minute.’
‘Never is, is there?’ Ted sympathized, perhaps thinking back to his stand-up days.
‘I’m based in Worthing,’ KK went on, ‘and I used to do a lot of gigs round all the pubs in the area, into Hampshire, Kent even. My band’s called Rubber Truncheon.’ He paused for a nanosecond, like all performers do, but receiving no flicker of name recognition, went on, ‘I used to do regular gigs here, didn’t I, Ted?’
‘Yeah, all right, don’t go on about it.’
‘I mean, Monday evenings, they’re always quiet. Hardly worth you opening up then. But, like I’ve said before, if you had a bit of live music, that’d bring the punters in, always has done. Then they get loyal to the band and you find you’ve built up a fan-base in no time. Bit of social media coverage, lots of bands have got relaunched that way. And, of course, the pub that’s their venue, they benefit from it, and all. Sales of booze go up. I’m sure, Ted, if you tried, you could—’
‘I’ve told you a thousand times, KK. It’s not my fault. Government changed the laws, didn’t they? Got to have a licence for music now. Made it too expensive to have the live stuff. Days of a couple of blokes with guitars strumming away in the corner, they’re long gone.’
‘You could afford it, Ted,’ said the musician. ‘Now your restaurant’s in all those guides and everything, you must be sitting on a little goldmine here.’
‘Whether that’s true or not – and actually it’s not – I’m still not convinced that my restaurant guests want to be serenaded by the music of Rubber Truncheon.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my music!’
The landlord backed down quickly. ‘I didn’t say there was, KK. And it’s not your music I’m objecting to. Will you get it into your head – it’s nothing personal, it’s the price of a bloody music licence!’
Carole looked at Jude, trying to indicate with her eyebrows that there was really no need for them to be further involved in this exchange. But, infuriatingly, Jude indicated with a slight head movement that she wanted to stay. Even more infuriatingly, she said, ‘I think perhaps we’d better have another drink, Ted.’
Three large Sauvignon Blancs so early in the evening did not accord with Carole’s proprieties. But then again, if she said no, or asked for a mineral water, or went home on her own, that would definitely look like a snub to Jude. It was yet another social quandary. To her surprise, her lips formed the words, ‘I’ll get these. It’s my turn.’
So, a few minutes later, she found herself sitting down in an alcove with Jude and KK. Annoyingly, though the light way the two talked suggested they knew each other well, they gave no indication of how they had met, or how long ago. Nor did they give any indication of the level of intimacy at which their friendship had been conducted. And there was no way Carole was going to ask.
Despite his uncouth appearance, KK seemed to have been well brought up. His laid-back vowels occasionally slipped into something which might have been the product of private education. And he was conscious that Carole shouldn’t be left out of the conversation. After giving Jude an update on the doings of a drummer called Miff who they apparently both knew, and who KK had been working with in Holland until a few days previously, he turned the considerable charm of his smile on to her neighbour.
‘You’re looking very smart, Carole, for a visit down to the old C & A. Have you come straight from work?’
‘I’m retired,’ she replied awkwardly. ‘I was actually at a funeral this morning.’
‘Oh?’ KK’s face took on a suitably compassionate expression. ‘I hope it wasn’t someone close.’
‘No, no. I hardly knew him. Just someone from the village.’
‘Anyone I’d know?’
‘I very much doubt it.’ Carole doubted that the two men would have had much in common. ‘Man called Leonard Mallett.’
The effect her words had on KK was a total surprise. He looked as if he’d been hit by a lead-filled sock. He managed to gasp out the question, ‘How did he die?’
‘Fell down the stairs.’
‘My God.’ The musician shook his head slowly. ‘So, Heather finally did it.’
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