‘It’s not a mile and you know it …’
‘And Annie’s place is like a bloody ice house it’s so cold. Them sheets on the bed are frozen together, I’ll swear …’
‘Ask her to put a hot water bottle in.’
‘It’s alright for you. You’re not the one who has to leave the warmth and tramp down … and besides, do we have to live our lives to suit other people? We’ve got Edie here, surely that’s enough to satisfy the conventions?’
‘Tom, we’ve talked this over a dozen times. Do you want us to fail before we’ve even got started. If there’s talk they won’t give us their business, you know that. Perhaps the working man will come for his pint but I want the others … the … the gentry, if you like, when the time comes, and if there’s a whiff of scandal attached to this place they simply won’t come. It all has to be seen to be completely above board, you know that!’
He did, of course and on the night he pulled his first pint from the barrel which was placed in the cold-room behind the bar he was pleased with the grand way in which it ran into the tankard. It was brown and clear and the head on it was of just the right depth and consistency and he found it gave him inordinate pleasure to watch the man who had ordered it place his bushy moustache into the foam and drink deeply.
The man reached into his pocket but before he could put his pence on the counter a cheerful voice from the doorway which led into the cold-room stopped him.
‘No sir. Put your money away. It’s on the house!’
Tom turned, speechless and quite astounded for if they were to make a profit from this place they couldn’t be chucking their money away on free beer but Meg stepped forward and, putting her arm through his, smiled warmly at the gratified customer.
‘You are our first customer, Mr … er …?’
‘Jack Thwaites, missis.’
‘Mr Thwaites. My partner and I would be honoured if you would drink a toast with us, to this new venture of ours. Each man who comes in here for the next week will have his first drink on the house. We would be happy to begin with you.’
‘Well, that’s right generous of yer, missis! Yer good health.’ He nodded and lifted his foaming glass again. ‘I’m only sorry I didn’t order a rum!’ His eyes twinkled above the rim of his glass and Meg laughed.
‘You shall have one, Mr Thwaites, but don’t let on to the others or we will be bankrupt by the end of the week.’
‘Not you, lass! With you behind that counter you’ll not be short of custom.’ Suddenly aware that he did not know the exact relationship of this woman to the chap standing beside her, he realised it would not do to chaff her as one would any ordinary bar-maid. Jack Thwaites buried his nose in his pint pot. But as Tom turned away to pour him a measure of rum, he winked at Meg to show he meant no disrespect and was tickled to death when she winked back!
The door behind him opened somewhat hesitantly and Jack Thwaites turned to see who had come in, leaning on the counter in that relaxed way of a man who is at his ease in his local hostelry. Two young men, obviously farm labourers from their rough but decent clothing moved slowly into the room, looking about them in astonishment at the bright flagged floor, the fresh white walls, the sturdy, polished farm furniture. There were deep, cushioned chairs covered in dark, hardwearing fabric, a long refectory table, black and handsome around which were eight ladderback chairs with rush seats. Stools of elmwood stood against one wall but not along the counter for Meg had been told that men liked nothing better than to stand at a bar, and lamplight gleamed on copper and brass and horse leathers which hung about the fireplace.
A settle carved in yew was placed beside a gigantic log fire and a couple of tabby cats purred on the rug before it. A large yellow dog wandered about, nudging knees and smiling, and thinking he belonged to Jack Thwaites, Meg allowed it.
The room was grand, grand without being overwhelming, for these were working class men and they wanted nothing fancy. Clean, homely, bright and welcoming and not far from the likes
of
their own farm kitchens but with something added which they were at a loss to understand but which they found to their liking.
‘Come away in, lads,’ Jack Thwaites called with the bonhomie of the landlord himself, the pint of beer and generous tot of rum filling him with conviviality. ‘… and the first drink’s on the house!’
Meg moved forward, leaning her arms and deep breast on the counter top, smiling at the two young men with the friendliness and innocent trust with which she had treated the travellers in Great George Square. She asked their names and where they came from and evinced such interest in their ordinary lives that they tripped on their own tongues in their eagerness to tell her.
More men came in, quite taken aback by the warmth and laughter and the friendly greeting they received from the good-looking young woman behind the bar and the cheerful chap beside her, but with one satisfying, free drink inside them it was easy to buy another. Though they had come merely to look at the new place, curious about the charms of the inn, news of which Annie Hardcastle had spread about, they found themselves still there when time was called. Though they may at first have considered it a bit ‘posh’ for their taste, Miss Hughes did not seem concerned when Arnie Whittaker spilled a pint of best bitter on her lovely polished table, nor when she saw the mud trekked in by George Anderson, come straight from the fields where his cows had turned the track to liquid manure, and when Bert Taylor sang a song in which they all joined, slightly saucy, raising the roof with the noise, she stood behind the counter and banged a pint tankard in rhythm on it, her face flushed and laughing.
There was good grub for those who wanted it. Pickled eggs and onions. Cheddar cheese and home baked bread. Pork pies so tasty Bert Taylor took one home for his missus to taste, and pease pudding and faggots!
There was only one thing missing, Jack Thwaites told Tom when he took his leave, first one in, last out!
‘And what is that, Mr Thwaites?’ Tom asked, grinning amiably, for he had thoroughly enjoyed his first night working for himself!
‘A dart board and dominoes,’ Mr Thwaites replied.
‘You shall have them,’ Tom laughed, ‘on your next visit to “The Hawthorne Tree”.’
‘The what?’ Mr Thwaites was clearly mystified.
‘“The Hawthorne Tree”, Mr Thwaites,’ Meg cut in graciously. ‘That is the name of the inn.’
‘Well, I never did,’ he grinned, ‘and mine’s Jack!’
No-one knew how it began, of course. Perhaps a dying coal fell from the fire though Tom swore he had stirred the hearth until the flames were almost out, or was it a fag-end thrown carelessly by one of the cheerful revellers as he downed his last pint in the bar-room? How could they be sure, they asked one another? They only knew that had it not been for the dog which, unaccountably, was still about the place and whose frantic barking had brought them all tumbling, fearful and wide-eyed from their beds, they would have been burnt to a crisp, the lot of them, Edie said. Not another bloody fire, Tom was shouting as he scrambled up the hill, which, only an hour since he had gone down and Meg was fretful over the mess her well-placed bucket of water had caused on her new rug. Her heart had recovered from its desperate tattoo of remembered fear and though the blaze had done no more than singe her curtains and scorch the smooth white paint Tom had just completed it was a nasty thing to have happened on their very first night.
‘’Tis an omen,’ Zack remarked ominously, peering at the last wisps of smoke like an old raven with a portent of doom to deliver but Meg would have none of it.
‘Nonsense Zack! It was nothing but a live coal from the fire and if the guard had been put up as it should have been this would never have happened!’
Tom jumped to his own defence as Meg glared at him.
‘I put the guard up. It was the last thing I did before I locked the door.’ He glared back at her, his face suffused with the blood of indignant rage.
‘Well how did it start then, tell me that?’
‘Some drunken fool throwing a fag-end in the corner, I shouldn’t wonder …’
‘Which corner I’d like to know for the fire started here by the curtains …’
‘Well, if that’s the case then it couldn’t have been an ember from the fire either!’
Meg turned to look at the spot where she had thrown the bucket of water, her lips pursed reflectively and the fight went out of her.
‘You’re right, Tom … that’s strange … but then … what caused it?’
‘Nay lass, I don’t know. Perhaps a spark from the fire flew over the top of the guard.’
‘The guard? You’re sure you put it up?’
‘I did, our Meg, honest.’
‘When I found it it was lying on it’s side …’
‘Perhaps the dog knocked it over when …’
Meg’s face cleared and the split second feather of premonition which brushed her spine was gone before she had time to register its existence.
She smiled in relief then sighed heavily. ‘That must be it, Tom, but we’ll have to be more careful. If it hadn’t been for the dog’s barking God knows what might have happened. I wonder where he came from? I thought he belonged to one of the customers but anyway, thank the Lord he decided to stay on, whoever he belongs to!’
THE THUNDER ROARED
across the garden and up over the rooftop of the building and Edie rushed to close the windows, convinced a storm was upon them and she did not want her freshly washed nets ruined. It was early in the year yet for the summer thunderstorms which could brew up in these parts, raging down in the valleys and over the high peaks, but best be sure!
She had never seen anything like the dreadful scarlet apparition which stood snarling, just like some beast about to attack its prey, outside the front door of the inn and she could feel the very floor move beneath her feet with its noise and movement. It would tumble the old foundations of the building, she was convinced, and them none too stable after all these years, and bring the walls down about their ears. She put out a trembling hand to Miss Hughes who was behind her supervising the placing of fresh linen in the bedrooms, imploring her voicelessly to witness this dreadful monster which had come upon them.
‘What is it, Edie?’
But Edie couldn’t answer for in truth she did not know!
‘For heaven’s sake, Edie!’ Meg’s voice was tart for she had just sent on their way twenty-three young cyclists, members of the Leicestershire Cycling Club who were on a tour of the northern beauty spots, and their youthful enthusiasm and high spirits in the dining-room and snug last night where even the young ladies had ventured a glass of cider, had worn them all to a frazzle. Annie Hardcastle who had offered her help had declared she didn’t know what the world was coming to, she really didn’t, and what were their families thinking of, she asked, allowing young girls the freedom to ride about – in
knickerbockers
if you please – as readily as gentlemen and they all needed their bottoms smacked in her opinion! But there, she sighed, these folk were Meg’s bread and butter and she supposed they must be prepared to make sacrifices to earn it. One might have been forgiven for believing that it was
she
who owned the inn, and made the sacrifice!
Meg moved across the bedroom and stood beside Edie. Twitching aside the newly washed nets she craned her neck to see who it was who had driven up to her front door for if Edie had not recognised the sound of a motor car, Meg had, and she did not want her freshly mown lawn spoiled by tyre tracks. Some of her clientele, the younger ones, had little respect for the property of those who served them and who were, consequently inferior to them, they believed!
The garden was a delight and a credit to the man who had created it, bursting with the life Tom Fraser had implanted there. The wild grasses and overrun flower beds had all been scythed to manageable proportions, then dug over again and again during the winter months. Every weed and nettle and strangling acre of convolvulus had been ruthlessly destroyed, and in the right season the lawn had been laid stretching from the gravel path about the building right down to the boundaries at the front and at each side of the inn. When the land was cleared a small stream had been discovered running across the bottom of the garden, gurgling and splashing most obligingly as the rubbish which choked it was removed. There was a high hedge of blackthorne and the huge hawthorne tree itself from which Meg had named the inn. Tom had planted ‘country’ flowers, many of them wild. Field-rose and meadowsweet, bellflower, campion and marsh marigold by the stream, blue and pink and yellow spreading in a multi-coloured carpet beneath the tree. Nearer to the house, edging the lawn in a more formal fashion was phlox and zinnia, begonia and dahlia and against the house wall itself the fragrant violet-blue beauty of the wisteria which had, over the decades, grown up to the roof top.
A gravelled pathway, wide enough to accomodate the motor cars Meg expected, led from the open front gate along the side of the house and round the inn to the back yard, cobbled and sensible, where the vehicles might be parked. There were stables which would eventually be made over into garages but along the walls which surrounded the yard Tom had planted climbers, rose, honeysuckle, clematis so that even here was beauty and fragrance. Beyond the cluster of stone built stables lay Tom’s ‘working’ garden in which there were row upon row of vegetables, fruit trees and a greenhouse, large and humid in which he was trying his hand at grape growing. There was a cow in a small pasture discreetly out of sight behind a stand of trees and a pen with pigs
in
it and round the stable yard, pecking restlessly at the cobbles, a dozen hens.