Marton on the Mound

I wrote this piece a year or so ago as an idea for a sort of soap opera about a country village in the north of England (those familiar with the world's longest running radio soap, the Archers, may see similarities but they are not intended). I'm not quite sure whether it worked, but it comes in 6 parts or chapters which I will post in fairly rapid succession. Here's the first chapter.

Bill

Bill’s seat in the Red Deer was positioned in the corner where the bar met the retaining wall. To his left was the fireplace and under his right elbow was the bar. This was a strategic position in the pub as it allowed Bill to join in with any conversation being conducted in front of the bar without having to turn to find his drink. This drink was always positioned at the end of his right arm, the elbow of which was positioned in exactly the right place to act as a fulcrum in the act of placing the pint pot to his lips.

The seating position also provided support as the evening developed, such that Bill could drink copious amounts of beer without any outwardly visible effects until, that is, it came time to leave (or on the few occasions when Bill needed to “make room”), when Bill would lever himself out of his seat using both the bar and the adjacent mantelpiece for support.

Regulars would vacate the seat when Bill came in; indeed although coveted by all the regulars, the seat would almost invariably remain empty until Bill came in. Occasionally, a stranger would take that seat for exactly the reasons that Bill did, as it seemed to command the best view of the proceedings, and allow for easy discourse amongst the gathered habitués. If the seat was still occupied when Bill came in, nothing was ever said, but Bill would look uncomfortable and the homely banter would become stilted until, in the way that can only work in village pubs, the stranger, realising that for some unknown reason he was no longer welcome, drank up and vacated the seat.

From his position in this seat, Bill took in all that was going on around him. It was reckoned that Bill knew more about what was happening in the village than any other resident, but curiously, never divulged any of it. He was happy to discuss past residents of the village, and in particular past landlords of the Red Deer, ten of which he calculated he had seen off in his time in that seat, but never joined in with current gossip. He was not the sort of man to foist his stories on the gathering, but was always ready with a new anecdote, usually about a previous landlord.

Bill would arrive at the pub at precisely 6.00, rain or shine. As he left at about 8 o’clock, he would announce to the assembled congregation that he would see them the next day, or, on those very few occasions when his absence was unavoidable, he would announce that “she” had arranged something for that day so he wouldn’t be in. “She” was the woman he had shared his life with for as long as anyone could remember, and presumably the woman who cooked his meals and kept house for him. It was always assumed that Bill had it all under control and that “she” did as she was told and had his pipe and slippers ready for him when he staggered back home. She never came to the pub with him, and until that one night, as far as anyone could tell, was never seen outside the house she shared with Bill.

It was one of those nights when the early doors crew were particularly lively and the jokes were flying thick and fast. The laughter was loud and infectious and many of the crew had stayed for that extra pint or two to make the evening last a little longer. Bill, far from being exempt from this, was in fine form as the evening stretched on. The crew were arrayed in a semicircle around him with their backs to the door as he held forth on some particularly humorous incident perpetrated by a previous landlord. He was about to reach the final dénouement of the story when he stopped abruptly, levered himself out of his seat and made his way unsteadily towards the door. The stunned crew separated like the Red Sea to allow Bill through, and as they turned to watch him make for the door, they saw a tall, upright woman silhouetted against the light of the doorway, standing silently with arms crossed. She took one step to the side as Bill approached and then followed him silently out of the pub.

Chastened by the vicarious experience of being fetched from the pub, the crew began to make their excuses and wend their ways back to their wives and girlfriends. No one ever mentioned the incident to Bill, and certainly Bill never spoke of it, but although Bill’s seat remained his, and he still held court in front of the early doors crew, he never again stayed later than 8 o’clock.