The sun had almost gone down. The green and purple flanks of the
south Shropshire hills engulfed by darkness. The Lawley, Caradoc, and Ragleth
brooding in the black. The little Morris motored up and along Sandford Avenue, its
engine laboured somewhat as it reached the top of the shoulder beneath Hope
Bowdler rock. The driver, Tom, crunched down through the gears, cursing whilst
his younger brother, Win, gave facetious advice from the backseat.
Their
companion, known as Long-nose Cleeton, sat quietly in the front passenger seat
smoking his pipe.
Soon they were bumping along the lane past Soudley Post Office
and winding their way into Ticklerton and home. The village nestled unevenly
between two farms, and all three men reminisced fleetingly and in silence, recalling shimmering summer days in the fields with their friends, gathering
and loading the harvest onto the waiting carts, leading the great, snorting beasts
that pulled them to the barns.
They would do their bit this year too, but their
childhoods were over; six years of war had hardened their hearts. They had all
seen horrors, things that no one should see.
"Well, I don't know about you two, but I fancies a pint or
three," said Win as Hill View lit up in the headlamps and Tom brought the
Morris to a halt before it. Their mother's house stood close to the road, the
uniform darkness of its frontage interrupted by one dim light in an upstairs
window. Long-Nose pulled the pipe from his mouth, visibly leaning forwards,
peering up towards it. Playfully, Win took ahold of the brim of Long-Nose's
hat, pulling it down sharply over his eyes.
"He's hoping to see our sisters in their nighties, Tom!
Dirty little bugger. Which one d'ya love, Long-Nose, Ruth or Eve?"
Long-Nose wrenched the hat from his head and looked at Tom.
"I was doing no such thing Tom. You know how high I holds
your sisters in my esteem. They are both lovely young women, indeed they are.
But I knows my place. Why neither
those ladies would ever see me as anything more than auld Long-Nose, and
quite right too".
Tom forced the gears into first and revved up the
engine. "Light your pipe Long-Nose and keep your eyes on the road.
Now, all those in favour of Win's suggestion of alcoholic beverages say
aye". "Aye!" came the unanimous reply. "The ayes have it gentlemen," said Win. "Post
haste to The Plough at Wall, driver, and don't spare the horses neither."
They drove on around the bend, and carried on along the uneven
lane towards Eaton-Under-Heywood. The Morris began to pick up speed as they
came down the bank, and they could see the old white fingerpost pointing left to
the village of Wall. Tom ground down through the gears once more, span the wheel in his right
hand and pulled hard on the hand brake with his left. The tyres screeched as
they slid around the bend, Tom and Win whooping like cowboys whilst Long-Nose
held on grimly to the leather strap above his head and puffed furiously on his
pipe.
They met no other road users until they drove into Wall. Tom
slowed down as he manoeuvred the Morris past two men in a horse-drawn cart who waved at
them as they drove past, the two horses skittish, still unused to the roar of
petrol engines.
The Plough was well lit and inviting. They left the car in the
road and stopped briefly to
speak to Walter Clacket, who always sat and drank his ale in the porch. Fifteen
years earlier, Walter had fallen out with The Plough's landlord, vowing that he
would never set foot in the bar again. He had been true to his word, relying on
others to keep him supplied with pots of ale while he sat on his bench outside
in all weathers.
Once again, young Win tried to coax Walter indoors, reminding
the obstinate old man of the comfortable seats in the inglenook. Walter was
adamant. He had sworn never to cross the threshold and he never would, despite
the fact that the offending landlord had died over seven years previously and The Plough had changed hands three time since.
Within was the usual scene of working men sat talking quietly to
one another, or playing dominos and darts. At the bar they were greeted by slim
Ivor, the enormously overweight landlord who bellowed down to young Ralph, the
cellar-boy, to carry up two fresh jugs and, as an afterthought, to not spill a
drop upon the stairs lest he find himself with a thick ear and face down in a
barrel. Slim Ivor's threat was empty, because since taking over the licence in
forty six, no one had seen him go down or come up from the cellar once in the
two years he'd been there.
As they waited for young Ralph, they were distracted by two
strangers stood further along the bar. One nursed a pint and looked down into
it, seemingly embarrassed by the loud and bragging nature of his
whiskey-drinking companion. "Just look at this filthy old dump," the companion was
saying, "I should like to gut this place, clear it all out and replace it with modern decor and
facilities. Have proper pumps, like in town, with a pretty barmaid to pull the
pints. None of this carrying drink in jugs. It's disgusting, old fashioned,
like drinking in a pigsty."
Tom put a restraining hand on Win's sleeve and pointed to a
vacant table. Reluctantly, Win followed Long-Nose and sat down while Tom
waited. "Jesus Christ" continued the man, "this place is
the pits if you ask me. We should take a leaf out of the Yank's book, have
proper, stylish bars like they do. Get rid of these old pubs and drag these
sorry peasants into the twentieth century. Fucking country bumpkins. I hate
em."
The bar was silent now, the atmosphere charged with anticipated
menace. The man lifted his glass to his moustached lips and drained it. "Come on, let's get back to civilisation," he said. He
lifted the empty glass above his head, then, looking straight at Tom, he
slammed it upside down upon the bar.
Collectively, the regulars of The Plough gasped at the insult of
the upturned glass and, in the following moment, Tom clenched his right fist
and swung it hard, straight into the man's waiting face.
The punch knocked him clean out and he slumped to the floor in a
pile. A cheer went up. Tom picked
up the offending glass, bowed to his applauding fellows and placed it back upon
the bar, the right way up.
Graham Attenborough (2014).
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