Marton on the Mound - part 2

Bill doesn’t arrive

Winter in the Red Deer was a cheery place.  The pub was blessed with an open fire just by the bar, which was always lit well in advance of the pub opening so that the bar was nice and warm and the fire roaring and inviting.  As each new entrant of the early doors crew arrived he would position himself (for it was almost invariably a he) in front of the fire with his hands behind his back to soak up the warmth, and would order his drink by calling to the landlord from the fireplace.  As the next person arrived, he would take up a position in front of the fire and its previous occupant would move to the side.  Thus the circle gradually moved round in a clockwise direction to allow all posteriors to be warmed but not roasted.

This circle was somewhat intimidating to other pub users who were not part of the crew, as it dominated the bar area and forced newcomers to walk around it to reach the bar, and, in addition, completely blocked the fireplace.  This was not a deliberate strategy by the crew; it was just the way it worked.  Anyone who came into the pub that was not part of the crew was ignored simply because they did not belong.  To belong you had to become adopted by the crew by virtue of a chance remark thrown your way and responded to, or, in rare cases, by virtue of an interesting and arresting observation or joke.

Bill was of course the exception to the rule.  When he came into the pub he made his way straight to his stool by the bar and to the side of the fire.  In this position he could command the view of the pub, drink his beer without lifting his elbow and (very importantly during winter months) get the benefit of the fire without roasting his backside.  The circle would always break in front of Bill’s seat so that Bill, remaining seated, was part of it.

The first day that Bill did not turn up and sit in his seat, it was assumed that he was a bit late and then as time went on, it was assumed that “She” had called him away for some reason.  By the second day the news of Bill’s death had reached the crew and as is the way when part of the team is suddenly removed, his life and his influence on the crew was widely discussed by them.  There was no unseemly wailing or gnashing of teeth, for this would not have been appropriate in this community, but respect was shown in the way in which each man contemplated his beer and glanced at the empty corner seat before telling his own personal reminiscences of the great man.

The circle gyrated in its usual fashion, still not blocking the view that Bill would have had if he had been seated in his usual place, but the crew was subdued that day and broke up at about 8 o’clock when Bill would have left.

The next day the crew assembled as usual, and, apart from the odd comment about how strange it was not to have Bill in their midst, the banter went on pretty much as usual.  Still no one sat in Bill’s seat. 

Terry was telling a joke he had heard that morning from one of his colleagues on the building site.  He had his back to the door and was holding forth in his usual fashion, acting out each part, gesticulating and peppering the narrative with vulgar descriptive words that made the crew laugh.

It is amazing the effect a dog-collar can have on an early doors crew in a pub when they are in full flow.  It was John that saw the priest first.  It was his turn at the fire and he was standing with his eyes closed, revelling in the warmth flowing from his backside up his hands and into his aching shoulders.  He opened his eyes and the sight of a priest walking into the pub made him step backwards into the hearth, catching the heel of his workboot on the grate and causing a shower of sparks to leap up his trouser leg.  With a compound curse of considerable inventiveness and no less descriptive impossibility, he leapt away from the fire and burst through the circle spilling a great deal of his own and others’ beers as he did so.  He came to land in a sitting position rubbing his singed legs at the feet of an astonished priest who had incidentally become the recipient of much of the spilled beer.

Thus, the strange scene in the pub comprises a broken circle of lads, some nursing half empty beer glasses, but all facing an embarrassed, wet and discomfited priest of, as yet, unknown denomination, with the bulky form of John the roofer sitting at his feet to all the world in the pose of supplicant. 

Who knows what went through the minds of the gathered crew at this time, but none spoke, or, for those that had preserved any, supped their ale.

The priest, realising that he must speak to break the silence, and acting as if this was the most normal of situations, said, “I understand you gentlemen are friends of William Hutchinson”.  This too did not have the desired effect.  Instead of a chorus of affirmation, the crew looked at him with a unified look of puzzlement.  “William Hutchinson” the priest repeated, “known as Bill?”  Gradually the faces became less puzzled and realisation came upon them. 

“Ah” said John, “you must mean Old Bill”.  He spoke from the floor and involuntarily glanced at the empty stool in the corner.  The priest held out his hand to help him to his feet and, taking the glance at the stool as an invitation to sit down, walked through the circle and sat in Bill’s stool.  He found himself gazing at the semicircle of men paying rapt attention to his every word; a position, incidentally, that he had rarely enjoyed during a sermon in the village church.